Seal Song
by Fiddler55
Summary: Steve and Cheryl's current homicide investigation draws the interest of the FBI's X Files team. Crossover.
1. Dead in the Water

Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda Bentley, Jesse Travis, Cheryl Banks, Ron Wagner and Captain Newman do not belong to me but to CBS, Viacom et al. Those of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are the property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and Twentieth Century Fox. All other individuals are the product of my own unbridled imagination, and any dubious resemblance to any living person is totally by accident.

Contains some intense situations, some mildly suggestive language/situations, some unavoidable violence.

For those of you interested in the timeline angle, this takes place after the events of The Longest Road. I would like to thank my friend Marla for her contribution to one of my favorite aquatic scenes. She knows which one!

Steve Sloan pulled to a stop outside one of the less ostentatious Malibu homes overlooking the rocky beach to the Pacific, somewhat surprised to see Amanda Bentley's car already parked in the circular drive. The call had come through as a domestic dispute with probable homicide, which customarily would have been handled by one of the other county medical examiners. Cheryl must have found something unusual, he mused, his gaze sweeping around automatically as he walked up the steps.

His partner glanced up as he pushed the door open and greeted him with her customary enthusiasm. "What have you got?" he asked, flashing a grin back at her.

Cheryl shrugged. "Looks like your garden variety domestic homicide. The neighbors heard a lot of yelling, thumping and crashing around yesterday --"

He raised an eyebrow. "Nice of them to wait until today to call us."

She made a wry face. "Isn't it wonderful when people look out for each other? Anyway -- the husband's in the den. Apparently his body was dragged in there, by the look of the tracks on the carpet. The wife has disappeared --"

"But?" he asked, hearing the nuance in her voice.

"But she left everything behind. Driver's license, clothes, jewelry, credit cards, wallet -- cash included."

Steve shrugged in his turn. "She could have cleared out anyway, it happens all the time. Sounds pretty basic."

"Not quite," said a new voice. Amanda stood frowning in the doorway. "Steve, Cheryl, you might want to come take a look."

Curiously, they followed her into the den. The casually dressed body of a reasonably fit-looking middle-aged man lay near the fireplace, a substantial trough in the carpet leading up to his body. Closer inspection revealed several deep, large gouges on his face, neck and arms, and it looked like his neck was broken, throat crushed, if the bruising in that area was any indication.

Steve raised a questioning eyebrow. "What is it I'm supposed to be seeing, other than he's clutching something in his hand?"

"Certainly looks like he was in a fight," Cheryl contributed.

Amanda held up a plastic bag containing some grey-brown hair. "This is what he had in his fist. I'll see if tests will come up with anything. But that's not what I meant." She squatted down next to the body. "Feel his clothes, Steve."

He fingered the man's pants, then the shirt, with his gloved hand, and swiveled to look at her dubiously. "They're damp."

Amanda nodded. "And so's the carpet where his body was dragged over it."

The three exchanged glances, then Amanda sprang her next surprise. "And look at these stains on his clothes where it's started to dry -- it's salt water, Steve."

While he was digesting this unusual bit of news, Cheryl was investigating the trough. "Steve -- it looks like he was towed in from outside."

He rose and joined her, staring out onto the wood deck and to the rocks below. "Something about this is not making sense." He pushed open the door and wandered outside, where the soft sound of music, high and sad, came wafting over the salt breeze. "I'm surprised the neighbors didn't call this in yesterday," he commented.

"What do you mean?" Cheryl asked as she joined him on the deck.

Steve shrugged. "Considering you can hear their stereo, if they heard the fight yesterday, the noise must have been fierce."

She stared at him blankly. "What stereo?"

It was his turn to stare. "Don't you hear it -- that music?"

Cheryl gave him one of those knowing looks she generally reserved for his less serious moments. "I don't hear any music, Steve."

He tried again. "It's like a flute -- but higher and -- wilder, I guess."

Cheryl shook her head. "You're imagining things, partner. Only music I hear is doo-dee-doo-doo," as she hummed the familiar phrase from an old TV science fiction show.

Steve snorted. "I'm not that crazy." He held the door open for her as they went back inside, but couldn't resist looking back over his shoulder. The phantom flutist was still playing.

He lounged at Amanda's desk a few hours later, sipping hospital coffee and watching her intently as she lifted the sheet off their latest case. She was frowning again. Intrigued, he asked, "So what didn't you want to tell me over the phone?"

Amanda looked at him grimly. "What I'm going to make sure you see now so you don't give me a hard time."

Steve grinned at her. "I value my own skin too highly to take that kind of chance, Amanda."

"Hmpfh," she grumbled, but she couldn't help returning the smile before her expression darkened again. "Mr. Tallon received a mortal blow to the epiglottis."

Steve raised an eyebrow. "But?" he inquired patiently.

"But that's not what killed him," she continued. She gave him a sharp look to make sure he was paying attention. "He drowned. In the ocean."

Steve choked on his coffee. "Excuse me?" he spluttered.

Amanda gave him another critical look. "There's seawater in his lungs. He wasn't dumped in the ocean later; he breathed it in, and drowned. Then his windpipe was smashed."

Steve stared at her in disbelief. "Let me get this straight. You're saying somebody or somebodies held Tallon under, in the ocean, till he drowned, then whacked him in the throat, and then dragged him ashore and into his house, which is a considerable distance above a beach full of rocks?" He took a gulp of coffee and narrowly avoided burning his tongue. "And just how did they get him up there, anyway? With a crane, or did they just grab his feet and pull?" he asked, with understandable sarcasm.

"That's not quite what I'm trying to tell you," Amanda said acidly. "His pharynx and epiglottis were crushed -- manually. From the looks of the marks, by one very large hand."

Steve suppressed an involuntary shiver; his last encounter with massive fingers had been highly unpleasant and, he hoped, his final one. He pushed the thought away firmly, and waited, watching Amanda's face carefully.

Amanda pointed at one of the gouges on Tallon's arms. "And, if it weren't for the fact that it sounds crazy, the dimensions of these, which coincidentally were made while he was in the water, I presume while fighting for his life, are similar to the marks on his throat."

Steve was thoroughly bewildered, unsure exactly where Amanda was heading. "So what are you saying, then? He was mugged by a gigantic aquanaut?"

Amanda smiled at him pityingly. "I'm not done yet, Sherlock."

He waved a hand at her airily. "Pray, continue," he declared with a truly dreadful attempt at a British accent.

She smacked the hand, then sobered. "The scratches have little bits of shell in them."

"Couldn't he have gotten those from the beach?" he queried.

She shook her head. "He wasn't dragged face down, see? No other marks on his face or his chest. And his clothes were ripped down the back, not the front." She looked even more perturbed. "I had some of the shell analyzed. It's not local."

Steve laughed. "Amanda, the Pacific's a big ocean."

She made a face at him. "And one of these is from a bivalve which has only been found around the North Sea, which, the last time I checked, was halfway around the world and attached to a different ocean altogether."

"Still, Amanda -- if that's the only thing bothering you other than how Tallon got into his den --"

Amanda shook her head once more. "No, Steve," she replied sweetly, "it's not. Remember the hair sample?"

Steve sat up. "You got a match?"

"Oh, yes."

"Well?" he demanded. "Who is it?"

Amanda had a very peculiar expression on her face. "Not so fast. It's definitely an it. We matched it, but not with a person. It's seal."

"Seal," Steve said blankly.

She nodded. "Seal."

He gave her a skeptical look. "You mean, seal, like, aaurrpp, aaurrpp ---" he offered, clapping his hands together rhythmically.

She shuddered. "That's the worst imitation of a seal I've ever heard."

He grinned at her. "Wait till you hear my dolphin."

"Forget it!" Amanda said hastily. "To repeat -- the hair is seal, specifically harbor seal."

"So what?" Steve asked, still puzzled. "There are harbor seals all up and down the coast. As a matter of fact, it's almost mating season, so the rocks are full of them."

She gave him a superior look. "Pacific harbor seals, yes. But this hair came from an Eastern Atlantic harbor seal -- they happen to hang out, among other places, in the North Sea."

Steve stared at her, debating whether she could be pulling his leg, but she was obviously serious. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain, he heard the lone whistling again.


	2. Mulder and Scully Go West

The petite redheaded woman picked her way carefully through the labyrinth of boxes, books, and assorted items defying individual description or categorization which her partner called his office, swearing under her breath as she stubbed her toe on an ungainly apparatus on wheels which looked like nothing she had ever seen before. "Mulder?" she called finally, a trace of irritation in her voice, giving up locating his desk as a lost cause.

"Over here, Scully," came a disembodied voice.

She glanced in that direction, and finally distinguished a long-fingered hand waving at her. After a few false turns, she emerged in a semi-cleared area containing a cluttered desk and her partner.

He pressed a button on a stopwatch and gave her a sly grin. "You're off by a minute and twenty seconds, Scully."

She suppressed the urge to throw something, mainly because it was impossible to tell which piece of junk would be most effective against his skull. "If you didn't have this mess in here --"

"Everyone would be able to find me," he finished cheerfully.

Scully sighed. "No one wants to find you, Mulder. Except me. And I'm not too sure about me." She lifted a pile of precariously stacked books from what appeared to be the spare chair and dumped them unceremoniously on the floor, sitting down with another sigh. "So what was so exciting you had to drag me down here this time?"

He pointed at the computer monitor. The wall behind it boasted a poster claiming to know the truth lay out there somewhere. "There's been an interesting pattern of drowning victims along the California coast."

Scully raised an eyebrow. "Since when do you get interested in drownings?"

Mulder's face wore its customary sleepy expression. "All men, between the ages of thirty and fifty, reasonably well off. All married. All drowned in the ocean but found in their own homes, soaking wet, crushed windpipes and an unusual pattern of scratch marks on them." He moved the mouse and brought up an image of one of the dead men. "Their wives have all disappeared, leaving all their worldly goods behind them."

She was staring at the monitor. "It looks like the same hand which scratched him left the marks on his throat, although I'd have to examine him to be sure," she remarked, her interest finally piqued.

Mulder nodded. "They found bits of shell in the scratches, some of which are only found in the northeast Atlantic, the North Sea area specifically, rather than the Pacific." He tossed a folder at her, which she picked up and flipped through as he talked. "Latest is one Greg Tallon, a Malibu software engineer."

"Aren't they all?" Scully asked dryly.

Her partner gave her an appreciative grin. "Forty-eight, average income in excess of three hundred thou a year, pretty wife fifteen years younger, no children. This one was a little different from the others, though."

"How so?" Scully inquired, concentrating on the photographs of the dead man's injuries.

Mulder stretched back, linking his hands behind his head. "Tallon was dragged up about a hundred feet of rocks from the beach to his house after he'd been drowned. And it looks like he tore some hair from his assailant, based on the LAPD and pathology reports."

She knew better than to spoil his fun; if she didn't play along, he'd sulk for the rest of the day. "And?"

He had the look of a hunting dog which had just picked up the scent. "It was seal fur." He smiled at her contentedly. "Ever hear of the legend of the Selkie, Scully?"

His partner shook her head. "Tell me a story, Mulder," she requested wryly, settling herself more comfortably.

Mulder switched to another window. "The selkie was a figure from Celtic legend, believed to be able to shape change from seal to human and back again. In some versions, the selkie actually shed and stored its sealskin; others simply say it could shift back and forth interchangeably between the two. Traditionally, the selkies, both male and female, were supposed to be irresistible to humans. If a human lad found a sealskin belonging to a female selkie, he could keep her by confiscating it. And the legends say that male selkies would often come ashore looking for suitable mates among the local female population."

Scully stared at him incredulously. "You're telling me that all those men were murdered by a marauding seal looking for a good time?" Hard as she tried, the image which came to mind wouldn't work, and she started to giggle in spite of herself.

Mulder generously allowed her to chuckle herself to a stop before he continued. "We're not talking li'l fuzzy with big soulful eyes on an ice floe here, Scully. We're talking a good two, three hundred pound creature at home both in the sea and on land, in either shape. Legend says his human form was that of a fair-faced, muscular, powerful man of above average height and weight with preternatural strength and the ability to charm any woman away from her husband or lover."

She looked frankly disbelieving. "Mulder, that's ridiculous." But her eyes slid unwillingly to the image on the screen, an artist's rendering of the description her partner had just provided. It looked disturbingly handsome -- and dangerous. She grabbed at her wits and what she remembered of California coastal marine life. "Mulder, there are seal habitats along the entire Pacific coast. They can't all be on a murder spree."

He shook his head. "That's just it, Scully. I don't think they are." He pointed to the photo of the hair sample. "The selkie was indigenous to the British Isles, and primarily the Scottish and Irish coasts. And the hair Mr. Tallon yanked from his attacker belonged to an eastern Atlantic harbor seal." He glanced up to meet his partner's appraising blue eyes. "We've got ourselves a tourist. Care for a trip to the West Coast?"


	3. Just Another X File?

Steve poured himself a cup of coffee and wandered out onto the deck of the beach house. Even though he was off duty, and consequently hadn't needed to get up, he had awakened early, the traces of the haunting music he had heard running through his mind, giving him a vague sense of disquiet. Over the years, and particularly of late, he had learned to trust his instincts, and they were definitely uncomfortable now. So he leaned on the railing, nursing his coffee, and watched the sun send orange-pink fingers through the silvery water, letting his thoughts roam where they wished.

As he stood there, gazing at the ocean he loved, he thought he saw something or someone swimming some good distance from the shore. He reached for the binoculars Mark kept on a hook, wanting to reassure himself that the swimmer was in no danger, and lifted them to his face.

And promptly put them down again, rubbing his eyes. He could have sworn the person wasn't quite a person. It had looked human; he was positive he'd seen an arm, and a distinguishable face, but it seemed to be -- furry. He raised the binoculars again, and breathed a sigh of relief. It was only one of the harbor seals which occasionally cruised by the beach house. He turned, about to go back inside, when he heard the music again. He whirled around, but saw nothing, and the notes themselves had drifted off once more.

This was not good. His life had been so calm, so normal, for some months now, no lunatics specifically targeting him or his family and friends for any particular mayhem, and now he was cracking up? And, if he was going to have auditory hallucinations, why some screwy haunting music played on something that sounded like a flute being throttled half to death, and which made him want to laugh and cry simultaneously? Maybe he'd thrown himself back into his job a little too enthusiastically. He sighed, staring out at the water again; whatever had been out there before was gone.

"Steve? You out there?" His father's voice called from the hallway, and was soon followed by the rest of him. "What's the matter, son?"

Steve tried to look innocent, knowing it was probably pointless. "Nothing's wrong, Dad, just enjoying the early morning air."

Mark gave his son a critical stare. "Very early, for you." He restrained the automatic urge to examine Steve's face too carefully; old habits were hard to break. "Are you sure you're all right, Steve?" He settled into one of the chairs, inhaling the fresh aroma of his coffee. "Case bothering you?"

Steve glanced at the ocean, at his father's eyes, typically sympathetic, then at the water again, and sighed once more. "Dad -- this is going to sound crazy -- but I think I'm hearing things."

His father's eyebrows lifted. "Hearing things?" He took a sip, then looked at his son expectantly. "What kind of things?"

Steve snagged himself a chair and leaned forward against the railing, still staring out over the ocean. "Music, Dad. At least, I think it is. It's just on the edge of earshot; when I try to deliberately listen to it, it disappears."

"What kind of music?" Mark asked, still merely curious.

He was starting to feel a little silly. "Never mind, Dad. I'm probably just imagining it."

Now Mark's interest was truly aroused. "Humor me, then. What are you hearing?"

Steve stared seawards again, and the memory of the faint, mournful whistle slid back into his mind's ear. "It's like a flute," he said slowly, "except the timbre isn't quite right -- it sounds higher, almost strained." He gave a short, odd laugh. "It almost -- hurts -- to listen to it, if that makes any sense, Dad."

His father said nothing.

"Dad? Are you all right?"

Mark stirred from his abstraction. "What? Oh, yes, son, fine."

Steve looked at him narrowly. "What is it, Dad?"

His father thought for another minute, then shook his head with frustration. "Damn. Almost had it." He glanced up into the worried blue eyes. "I'm all right. I was reminded of something, but it wandered off before I could put my finger on it."

Steve gave his father another strange look. "What -- the strangled flute or my hearing things?" he asked cautiously.

Mark laughed. "Steve, there's probably nothing wrong with you that a relaxing day on the beach wouldn't cure. But I'll call Jesse to have you go down to the hospital and get checked out if you want." He grinned at his son's immediate scowl, then sighed. "No, something about what you said about how the music made you feel -- where have you been hearing this mystery tootler, anyway?"

"That's what's even weirder, Dad," Steve said with some frustration. "The first time I heard it was yesterday, at Greg Tallon's place."

Mark's eyebrows rose. "Your murder victim?"

Steve nodded. "But I was the only one who heard it -- repeatedly. Cheryl and Amanda swore up and down they didn't hear a thing." He scratched his chin pensively. "And -- I thought I heard it while I was in Amanda's office, when she was talking about the seals."

Mark had that odd look again, but was forced to admit defeat as once again the elusive snippet of information avoided capture. Steve gave him a worried look, then said, with reluctance, "And then I heard it again this morning, just before you came out."

"Here?" his father asked, startled. "I didn't hear anything--" he began automatically, only to meet his son's cross look. "I know, I know, you're the only one who can hear it." He picked up his paper and adjusted his glasses. "Steve, you're tired and frustrated; you and Cheryl have been working pretty hard lately. My official recommendation is for you to enjoy your day off, unless you want to go visit your partner in his other professional capacity."

Steve stood up abruptly. "No, thanks." He was about to elaborate on the shortcomings of his father's alternative suggestion when the telephone rang. He picked it up with a certain degree of impatience. "Sloan here. Hi, Cheryl. What's up?" His eyebrows drew downwards in irritation as he listened. "You've got to be kidding. It's our day off -- and Newman wants us to play tour guide to the Feds?" He listened for another minute, his attempted expostulations apparently being met with resistance on the other end, and finally gave in. "Oh, all right. I'll be down as soon as I can get there. Yeah. Okay. 'Bye." He disconnected and gave his father a long-suffering look. "So much for your prescription of fun in the sun."

"What's up?" Mark asked.

Steve looked disgusted. "This case is bad enough with Amanda trying to implicate the entire harbor seal population. Now we find out there have been other similar homicides up the entire west coast, and a couple of FBI agents are parked outside Captain Newman's office waiting for Cheryl and me to take them sightseeing." He saw the gleam in his father's eyes which, despite Mark's proven investigative talents, never failed to make him nervous. "Oh, no," he groaned. "Not you too, Dad."

His father beamed at him. "I'll get my sunglasses."

There was no mistaking Cheryl's glad expression this time. If he had ever seen a thank-you-partner-for-rescuing-me look on her face, he thought as he strode into their office, Mark in tow, this was definitely it. She had been talking with a tall, dark-haired, drowsy-eyed man who gave the impression of being simultaneously rumpled with sleep and primed for action. The dangerous type, Steve thought grimly, sticking out his hand. "Lt. Steve Sloan. I'm Lt. Banks' partner. And this is my father, Dr. Mark Sloan, medical consultant to the department."

"Fox Mulder," the FBI agent replied in a strangely unaccented drawl which matched his eyes. "Mulder will suffice. And this is Agent Scully."

The small, redheaded woman who had been examining what Steve noticed, with a spark of annoyance, appeared to be the Tallon file, glanced up at his approach, and a frowning blue gaze met virtually identical, although irritated, blue eyes with a shock that was almost electric. They were the clearest blue he had ever seen outside of his own mirror, he thought, somewhat taken aback. Clear and brutally honest.

Scully was thinking much the same thing. This man was much too handsome for his own good, even without the intense blue scrutiny, but there was something about him; she threw caution, and Mulder, to the winds. "Dana," she declared firmly, giving him her hand.

The smile began, tentative at first, then broadened to become the most irresistible grin Scully had ever seen. She returned it, and couldn't miss the appreciative gleam in his eyes as he held her hand a shade longer than ordinary courtesy required.

"Please call me Steve," he replied.

No one moved for a moment, then Mark coughed and reached for Scully's hand to shake it.

"Scully's a doctor, too," contributed Mulder's dry voice. "Got anything or anybody you want chopped up and analyzed?"

Scully waved a calming hand at their startled faces. "Don't mind him -- he's always like this."

Steve collected his wandering wits. "Let me see if I understand. The FBI is interested in the Tallon homicide?"

"That's right," Mulder responded. "It appears to be one of a series."

Steve glanced questioningly at Cheryl, who shrugged. "Only one of them turned up on our search," she commented, "and we used a variety of parameters."

Mulder had the grace to look uncomfortable. "Our research covers more than this year; more like the last ten to twenty years."

Steve's temper twitched, reminding him he really didn't like this guy. "I was under the impression you were claiming we were looking at a serial killer's murder spree," he said softly, his tone not overly friendly. Scully stood watching the two men bristle at each other, her eyes amused.

Knowing his son rather better, Mark intervened before the temperature dropped any further. "Why don't you show us what you've got, then, agent Mulder?" he suggested helpfully.

After listening to more or less the same presentation Mulder had given Scully the day before, Steve leaned back in his chair, denial written clearly all over his face. "You have got to be kidding," he stated, hoping Scully wasn't swallowing her partner's demented meanderings.

The object of his thoughts shook her head. "Much as I hate to say this, Steve, Mulder's got a pretty impressive batting average when it comes to this sort of thing. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff I've seen over the years."

He stared at her in shock. Not her. She looked, acted, so --

"Normal?" she asked wickedly, laughing when he flushed darkly. "I've become accustomed to that look," she explained. "It wasn't too difficult to tell what you were thinking."

Face still red, he growled, "The you should also have realized that I think your partner's certifiable, and should be charged with criminal mischief for towing you around humoring his delusional behavior."

Mark saw a spark of something leap in Mulder's eyes, suddenly not so sleepy, and decided once more to intervene. "Steve, give Mr. Mulder a chance. After all, we all run into the occasional -- unusual -- circumstances now and again."

Steve picked up the slight emphasis on the word "unusual" and the look in his father's eyes, and flushed again. All he needed now was to get involved in a discussion of the phantom whistler. He wasn't the only one, however; Cheryl slanted her partner a puzzled look, and Mulder's appraising glance was not totally innocuous. Reluctant to give anyone any excuse to pursue the subject, Steve capitulated. "Okay. I apologize if I reacted too hastily. Agent Mulder, what exactly did you have in mind as far as the LAPD's role in this goes?"

His irritation still wasn't appeased, however. As they walked out of the station preparatory to viewing the body at Community General, Steve drew close enough to Cheryl to avoid being overheard. "And how were you planning to spend your day off?" he inquired, overly sweetly. "Mine was supposed to involve sun, sand, surf, plenty of beer, and 'cue. I might even have invited you over to bask in those simple pleasures with me."

She gave him an equally honeyed smile. "My master plan revolved around a good book, a pitcher of margaritas, and knowing I had a few hours to myself," she riposted.

He pretended to be hurt. "That instead of everything I offered you?" he asked, sighing dramatically.

Now she did roll her eyes. "Please. And you haven't offered yet anyway."

He was about to rectify this omission when Mark looked back over his shoulder. "Come on, you two. Quit dawdling."

Cheryl gave Steve another sly grin. "If you hurry, you might beat your dad to the intriguing Agent Scully."

Steve stopped in his tracks. "Are you going to do that 'she's interested in you' thing again?"

She laughed. "Don't have to. You already know she is. Behave yourself." And she punched him, lightly, on the arm, moving away towards her car, leaving him surreptitiously touching the place where her hand had been, wondering at the tingling it had left behind.

Mark turned as he walked up to the rest of the group. "Steve, I'm going to ride with Mulder and Dana to guide them."

Steve caught the gleam of satisfaction in Mulder's eyes, and decided to change the plan. "I can't let you monopolize both of our guests, Dad." He unleashed the devastating smile on Scully. "Dana, would you be willing to keep me company?" he asked as innocently as possible, then, upon securing her acceptance, flashing a look Mulder-ward which was anything but, with more than satisfactory results.

Of course, Scully remarked upon it immediately once they were en route. "So when are you and Mulder planning to come to blows?" she asked, slightly amused.

He risked a glance at her; good, she was smiling. "Over his ridiculous theory or over you?" he inquired.

Those clear eyes could become incredibly forbidding, he discovered rapidly. "He's my partner, Steve. You know what that means. And we've seen some pretty strange things together." Her tone hovered towards icy. "I'm sure you and Ms. Banks depend closely upon each other as well."

He held up a hand. "Okay. Peace. I was out of line. I'm sorry." He sneaked a look at that incredibly precise profile. "I'll be honest with you, Dana. I don't like your partner. I think he's got several screws loose. And he makes me nervous. But I'll put up with him if you promise me something."

She was getting the puppydog look which Cheryl knew well. "What?" she asked patiently.

"Have dinner with me?" he asked ingenuously, the smile coming out in full force.

Scully had to laugh. "All right," she finally conceded, unable to resist, while he wondered at the chaos in his heart and brain.


	4. Water Sports

Luckily, Steve had the leisure to contemplate his wayward emotions at length the following day. Her final surgery completed, Rachel was getting the bandages removed, and he had promised to be there in Fresno with her when the last of them came off. It was ironic, he thought, that this drive had become so familiar that he could allow his thoughts to drift, when the first two times he had made the trip had been wrapped in considerable discomfort or worse.

Which thought process brought him back to his current dilemma. He and Rachel were still following the intricate steps of attempting to build a normal relationship from the psychic detritus of its initial stages. The geographical distance had been both a blessing and a hindrance, and there were times he seriously wondered whether his persistent mental image of her as the angel who had literally saved his life was putting unreasonable pressure on their tentative ability to follow the dance. He also had yet to address, much less resolve, the significantly un-partnerly feelings Cheryl inspired more often than not of late.

He had mentioned his ambivalence to his father at one point. Mark had listened gravely to Steve's stumbling description of his quandary, and had gently pointed out that, while he had recovered for the most part from the effects of his enforced isolation and subsequent rehabilitation, psychological injuries did not necessarily heal at the same rate as physical ones, and Steve couldn't necessarily expect his decision-making ability in the emotional department not to have suffered accordingly. "Take it one day at a time," his father had advised. "By all means, give your situation serious thought, but don't be discouraged if it takes you a while."

Steve had been inclined to agree at the time, especially because that approach seemed easier. Now, he wasn't so sure it had been such a good idea. The arrival of Dana Scully into his life, along with the screwiness associated with this case, had thrown what little emotional stability he had constructed thus far totally off kilter.

As always, Rachel was delighted to see him, and the unveiling proved worth the wait. Her surgeon had pulled off a minor miracle; the only remaining traces of the trauma she had experienced were a few white lines, which were so faint as to be almost invisible. Steve kissed each one anyway, assuring her that he saw them only because he knew where to look. In fact, he was totally awestruck at the talent of the doctor; Rachel's face once more had that remote beauty he remembered, like a sculpture refined by some infinitely precise fire. He told her so, enjoying the faint tinge of pink which crept into her cheeks.

They were sitting comfortably on her balcony, watching the sunset, when Rachel reached for his hand. "I have some news for you," she said provocatively.

Steve smiled down at her indulgently; he was much too relaxed to take her up on it. "What, sweetheart?"

Her eyes were dancing. "I got a job."

"Rachel, that's wonderful!" he exclaimed with pleasure. "Where?"

Her eyes flickered away from his face, then met his squarely. "Hamilton House."

His internal alarm started to twitch. "Doesn't sound like a large facility," he offered cautiously.

She took a deep breath. "No, it's not. It's a small nonprofit clinic which treats lower and non-income patients on an outpatient basis. I'm going to be the head psychiatric nurse."

He was appalled. After her long months of recovery, she was deliberately putting herself in harm's way again? He said as much, in no uncertain terms, eyebrows lowered ominously, and received a shock when she snapped at him.

"Steve, you of all people have no right to be critical of other people's career choices."

Stung, he opened his mouth to retort, then shut it when he realized he really didn't have a good response. He tried again anyway. "Rachel -- it's dangerous. I cringe to think of something happening to you."

Only slightly mollified, she replied, "I understand. But that's who I am. It's what I'm trained to do -- and for the most part, it's allowed me to help people who need that little extra effort to keep themselves together."

A gift he knew only too well, and for which he had every reason to be grateful. The implication lay unspoken between them; and, for a moment, neither one was willing to push it aside. Then Steve sighed, and captured her hands, kissing each one. "I know. Believe me, I know. I just worry, that's all."

Rachel mustered a reasonable attempt at her marvelous smile. "Then we'll just agree to worry about each other and leave it at that."

Still, driving home the next day, Steve wasn't so sure. He felt irrationally disquieted by the visit and the fact that they had had their first serious disagreement on the first day that Rachel could truly consider her life having returned to some semblance of normalcy. In need of distraction, he decided to stop off at the Tallon crime scene, but, as he headed north on Pacific Coast Highway, he found himself passing by the house, finally pulling off at a cove which offered both a view of the rocky beach below as well as a reasonably navigable path down to it, with a vague notion of taking a dip to calm his disturbed thoughts. After changing into the spare suit he always kept in the car along with a towel (fortuitously, he thought wryly), he headed down the rocky path to the beach.

The water was delicious; just cool enough to wake up the skin and clear the mind, but not so chilly as to be unendurable. He flung himself into several minutes of vigorous exercise, glorying in his body's response to the brisk waves and the taste of the salt water, wondering whimsically, as he often did, whether there was some wild sea creature more recently in his genetic makeup than that first primordial ancestor which had flapped its way onto land in prehistoric times.

Finally, refreshed, he crawled out onto one of the rocks, sitting with hands clasped loosely around one drawn-up knee, enjoying the warm touch of the sun on the ocean-cooled skin of his back, muscles gleaming with the remaining droplets of water in the sunlight. As he gazed out towards the open water outside the cove, he gradually became aware of sleek brown bodies cresting the waves and shooting through them. He smiled, pushing Mulder's lunatic theory to the lower recesses of his mind, and watched with increasing pleasure as the seals gamboled closer to the shore. Several times one or two even approached his rocky perch, barking up at him as if to invite him to join them in their play, then flipping backwards and streaking away as he instinctively shook his head with an appreciative grin.

In the back of his mind, the unearthly melody soared upward again, as he found himself staring suddenly into the deep chocolate eyes of a seal considerably larger than the rest. This one's markings were unusual, too; the dark brown fur was liberally shot through with soft streaks of grey. Maybe this was the senior seal, he thought absurdly, then did a double take when he heard a voice in his mind's ear.

Join us, cousin.

Steve glanced around automatically, confirming that he was the only person within speaking distance; but his puzzled gaze returned to the seal to see what looked disturbingly like a glint of satisfaction in its expression. He waited, wondering crazily if the voice was going to elaborate.

We are kinfolk, Fintan. It sounded amused. Join our revels.

Steve let his eyes slide sideways in each direction, then looked behind him cautiously, confirming that no new human arrivals had appeared, which left him with the seal. And the faint music, now growing stronger, in his head. He wasn't sure he liked this, but, considering he was sitting on a rock in the water, three-quarters naked, his gun in the car in the lookout above, he decided to go along with the unseen visitor until he could determine exactly what was happening. "Fintan?" he asked aloud, addressing the seal warily.

It means "white heat" in the old tongue. You have such in you. The seal's eyes were definitely fixed on him; and it -- nodded.

This was too weird. Not just weird but verging on uncomfortable. Bad enough he was talking -- listening? -- to a seal, but Steve had finally succeeded in tempering the core of anger he had involuntarily acquired months earlier into a tool which could be utilized productively or left sitting at will. Whoever it was carrying on this bizarre conversation with him, he didn't know, but they shouldn't have been able to peel that out of him. He stood up, reaching for his towel.

No. It is not yet time. Swim with us, cousin.

How it happened, he wasn't sure. One minute, he had turned to negotiate the rocks back to the path, and the next, he was in the water, a soft furry nose bumping his arm playfully. The music was much louder now, the flute high and sweet, still wild but not as mournful. A sudden unwillingness to clamber back to the weight of dry land came over him, and he reached out, laughing, to stroke the animal's nose. Then the larger seal appeared at his side.

Follow, cousin.

It shot seaward in a plume of salt surf, tail and flippers stroking powerfully. Steve couldn't resist the challenge, and took off after, broad shoulder muscles rippling as he cut through the water, catching up and staying level with the other, even though he suspected it could have outdistanced him easily. The other seals frisked around and alongside, teasing and flirting, barking appreciatively when he succeeded in catching them, running his hands over their gleaming, soft fur. He could still hear the remote whistling, but he found he really didn't care; this was too much fun.

Finally, the leader turned back toward Steve's rock. You swim well, cousin. Perhaps you will join us again.

Exhilarated, Steve climbed out, dripping, wet auburn-brown hair as sleek as the seals around him. Momentarily unconcerned with the incongruity of carrying on a conversation with a large seal, he grinned at it, shaking the water from his ears. "Who knows? I may have to stop by here more often."

The large seal opened its mouth, as if to laugh; then the dark brown pools fixed their opaque gaze on him solemnly.

Fare well, Fintan. Be safe.

And, before he could ask, it slid under the surface. Seconds later, he saw the powerful body burst upward joyfully as it captured the attention of the others, then headed for the open sea. Literally within minutes, Steve was alone, with only the echo of grace notes on the wind, wondering if he had imagined the whole thing.


	5. Mysterious Stranger

Steve spent an ultimately unproductive hour at the Tallon house, searching meticulously but vainly for any additional clues. When he walked out onto the deck, the only sounds were the muted crashing of the waves below and the hiss of the wind, empty of any additional music but its own. Frustrated, he eventually admitted defeat and drove home.

There was a rental car sitting in the drive. Curious, he tossed the wet towel and suit down the stairs into his doorway and headed through the upper half of the house in search of his father.

"That sounds like Steve now." Mark's voice drifted in from the deck. "Son? We're out here."

Steve walked outside to where his father stood talking to a tall, powerfully built man with grey-streaked dark brown hair and matching beard.

"Steve, this is Keefe Murphy. He's visiting from Ireland. Keefe, my son Steve."

Murphy turned, fixing luminous dark brown eyes on the newcomer, who felt a jolt of unexpected familiarity which defied explanation. "Steven." It sounded like Stee-faun, the vee soft.

Mark sat down and waved their guest to a chair. "Keefe's a folklorist, over here collecting tales of the Pacific coast and Northwest."

"Really?" Steve said courteously, speculating idly as to why Murphy was sitting on their deck, considering that he couldn't recall his father having any particular interest in that subject.

Murphy turned that disconcerting gaze on him and grinned. "And it's wondering you are why I'm here, then," he said in a rich voice with an obvious lilt.

Steve shrugged, trying not to appear overtly rude. "I apologize if this seems a little inhospitable, but the thought had crossed my mind." From the expression on Mark's face, it was clear that he was equally unenlightened.

Murphy leaned back in his chair. "If I am not mistaken, your surname is of Irish origin."

Mark considered briefly. "If I remember correctly, yes, originally -- I think my four times great-grandfather emigrated to America sometime in the 1840's, something to do with the potato famine."

Murphy nodded somberly. "The Great Famine. Year after year, the potato crops failed. Many people died of hunger; thousands left our green island for more bountiful shores. It was a hard, terrible time."

Steve glanced at his father, who wore a somewhat abstracted look. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but there are millions of people of Irish descent in the States, and presumably there's a sizeable number of Sloans."

"True," the Irishman admitted. "But I have reason to believe your ancestor came from Connemara in County Galway, on the western shore. If so, we have a common ancestor."

Steve raised a skeptical eyebrow, not sure whether he cared for this last announcement. Something about Murphy was niggling at him, but he didn't have enough information to support his instinctive reaction, especially while the man was a guest in his father's house. "Really," he commented again, not quite as politely.

Their visitor definitely looked amused. "Yes. A Sloan son took Ronnad Murphy to wife several generations before your branch of the family emigrated. I estimate that we are second cousins several times removed, you and I."

While Steve was digesting this inexplicably disturbing information, his father snapped his fingers suddenly. "Of course! Now I remember!" He grinned at his son, who was staring at him as if he'd just sprouted a second head. "Remind me, Steve, what did that flute sound like again?"

Steve looked at his father quizzically. "What's that got to do with our little genealogy lesson, Dad?"

His father flapped a hand at him. "Humor me."

Steve looked irritated, but complied with the request. "It sounds like it's being strangled, frankly. Shriller tone." He opted not to mention that he had heard it again that afternoon.

Mark wore an extremely self-satisfied look. "I knew it would come to me eventually," he said smugly. "What you've been hearing is a pennywhistle."

"A what?" asked Steve, simultaneously with a startled Murphy's "Beg pardon?"

"A pennywhistle," Mark repeated. "It's an Irish version of the recorder, slightly smaller and commonly made out of tin. It produces that semi-unearthly tone you described earlier."

Steve looked uncomfortable; Murphy was now quite interested. "Should I infer that you heard but did not see the musician?" he asked, not quite casually. "Perhaps -- because none was to be seen?" Another sly look. "Were you near the seashore by any chance?"

Steve's eyebrows slammed downwards in annoyance. "I really would prefer not to discuss this any more if the two of you don't mind."

His father, surprisingly, ignored him. "As a matter of fact, Keefe, maybe you can shed some light on something for us. I assume you're familiar with the legends of the selkies?"

To Steve, watching their guest narrowly, as well as with considerable irritation, there was no mistaking the surprise which touched Murphy's eyes before it was quickly blinked away. His internal alarm started to yelp once more; this guy definitely knew something about the strange incidents, and Steve was determined to discover exactly what that might be.

Murphy had managed to recover from his startlement. "Quite a bit; after all, it's Irish folklore that's my avocation! Why do you ask?"

Mark glanced warningly over at his son, who was wearing a mulish look and obviously not inclined to be particularly informative. Making a mental note to investigate just what was bugging Steve later, he gave Murphy a quick summary of Mulder's theory, his son continuing to study the Irishman closely during his narrative.

Their guest looked thoughtful. "The legends generally portray the selkie folk as more or less benign, even allowing for their -- erm, shall we say, amatory proclivities. Our family is one of those which claims such a tale." He gave the Sloan men a measuring look. "The tradition holds that a lass by the name of Muirgheal, or Muriel in the anglicized version, which means sea-bright, was found to be most fair by a handsome stranger and bore him a son before he was reclaimed by the pull of the sea. She named the boy Ronan, or little seal."

Steve stared at him in disbelief. "For crying out loud, Murphy, are you that naive? Don't tell me there weren't any abandoned unwed mothers in those days, especially among the poor and ignorant."

For a moment, something alien glared at him through Murphy's eyes; then the Irishman's expression returned to its original blandness, although the eyes remained wary. "Some folk, perhaps; but Muirgheal had a ring to prove her rightful status, and it's yourself should feel the shame for maligning our common heritage, with the love of the sea in your heart and in your soul."

Steve's eyes were cold. "You don't know anything about me, Murphy." He would have said more, but his father intervened, making another mental note to talk to his son later.

"We're getting off track here. Steve, if you don't mind, I would like to know more about this selkie, since agents Mulder and Scully seriously seem to be considering it a suspect."

Steve opened his mouth to object, but his father's grim look stopped him cold. "Fine," he grumbled. "But if I hear that the king of the fairies is parking himself on the front steps, I'm leaving." He missed the surreptitious movement of Murphy's hand.

Mark did not. He wondered briefly about their visitor's use of the ancient sign to avert the evil eye; however, Murphy didn't sound overly concerned as he returned to lecture mode.

"Even though the selkies for the most part were friendly to humans, there has been the occasional instance where the tale is darker; the seal-man frustrated in his search for his true love, for instance. And there was a story, from the west coast of Ireland, as a matter of fact, which depicted a violent rampage, although there was some debate as to whether it was initiated by the intruder or by affronted villagers."

"So what you're saying," Steve interjected, "assuming we even care to believe this nonsense, is that your seal guy isn't always the perfect guest."

Murphy treated him to a long, level stare, the chocolate eyes revealing nothing. "You give Mr. Mulder's theories no credence, Stee-faun?"

He didn't like the way this guy said his name at all, but that was neither here nor there. He thought. "No, I don't. And just because I supposedly have Irish ancestry doesn't mean I should."

The calm, opaque look again. "Do you not believe there is more to the concept of ethno-genetic memory that one might commonly think?" His smile somehow was not entirely pleasant. "And you -- you have heard the seal song, and still you doubt? You surprise me, Fintan."

Steve's head jerked up, his eyes wide. "What did you call me?" he whispered.

Murphy raised one eyebrow at his obvious discomfort. "Fintan. It's an old Gaelic name. It means --"

"I know what it means," Steve interrupted brusquely. His father gave him a startled look, surprised at both the rudeness and the revelation. "Why did you call me that?"

"I see the heat deep inside," the Irishman said calmly.

Mark was now even more confused, although he could definitely sense a confrontation in the making. "Would the two of you please back up and fill me in here?" he asked, somewhat plaintively.

Steve ignored him, reaching for that same white heat, more for reassurance that he could control it than any need to use it. "You can't possibly be able to make a snap judgment like that about someone you've just met for the first time, Murphy," he declared truculently.

Their visitor wore an enigmatic smile. "Yes, it is the first time, isn't it?" he asked, with an odd emphasis on the words.

Steve's eyes narrowed as he stared at the other man, wondering why that question somehow didn't feel right.

Murphy ignored the scrutiny. "Perhaps this might clarify your confusion. While the closest modern term for my profession would likely be 'folklorist', it does not truly encompass the breadth and depth of my work and my education. In ancient times, I would have been properly recognized as a bard. My training has included developing the ability to see more than that which is seen by a casual glance, to look below the surface to that which lies beneath." He smiled at Steve, his eyes now touched with an ineffable sorrow. "I grieve for what gave your fire its spark, but I honor your mastery of it, Fintan."

He literally felt cold, slightly damp fingers scuttling over his neck, and the faint trace of whistling touched his mind briefly, disappearing as quickly as it came. "Don't call me that," he growled.

"Very well, Stee-faun."

Steve was really starting to get tired of the man. "Steve," he said shortly.

The mouth smiled, but the eyes conceded nothing. "Steef."

The growing tension was interrupted by the doorbell. Muttering under his breath, Steve went to answer it, and returned shortly trailed by Cheryl and the two FBI agents. Once brief introductions had been made, Murphy took note of the official air of the newcomers and announced his intention to depart. He lingered over Cheryl's hand perhaps longer than might ordinarily have been considered polite. His farewell to Scully, however, was unusual to say the least, as he captured her eyes with his intent stare and said something to her which Steve and Mulder, both watching suspiciously, couldn't hear.

More to ensure that the man really left than to be polite, Steve walked Murphy to his rental car. "Have a good trip back to Ireland," he said, marginally pleasantly, with teeth.

Murphy returned the feral smile with equal insincerity. "A word of advice, Fintan-Steef. Be wary swimming in waters too deep."

Steve gave him an incredulous look. "Are you threatening me?" he asked offensively, wondering how annoyed his father would be if he beat the daylights out of the jerk right on the doorstep.

The strange eyes regarded him calmly, nothing human in them whatsoever, and Steve had a brief, unsettling impression of something unimaginable. On the edge of his mind's ear, the pennywhistle started to wail. Then Murphy smiled again. "Not necessarily. Cousin." He turned on his heel, got into the car, and drove away, leaving Steve wondering exactly what had happened, the whistle playing still.


	6. What Mulder Knows

He returned inside just in time to hear Mark ask Scully what Murphy had said to her. She had a perplexed look, and Mulder was scowling. "He told me, 'Until we meet once more, goddess, daughter of Danu.' At least, that's what it sounded like," Scully reported. She took note of her partner's angry expression. "His eyes were strange."

Mark switched his attention to Mulder. "Does any of that ring a bell?" he inquired.

Mulder's face was grim. "Danu was the mother of the Tuatha de Danann, the ancient Irish gods. She would have been comparable to the Greek earth goddess Gaia. I infer that Dana is a modern equivalent of the name."

Scully looked skeptical. "I don't think that's why my parents chose it."

Mulder cocked an eyebrow at her. "Isn't Scully an Irish name?"

She looked uncomfortable, not sure she wanted to get into this, but the combined looks of the other four made it clear that she wasn't going to get off lightly. "All right," she admitted reluctantly. "And they came from a place called Ballyscully, which, if I remember what my dad told me, was somewhere near the mouth of the Shannon river, on the west coast of Ireland."

Mark glanced at his son, who ignored his questioning look. "So he called you a goddess?" Steve asked, trying not to sound excessively jealous.

Cheryl laughed. "So he's a flirt. Personally, I rather liked the way he kissed my hand."

Her partner wasn't amused. "Okay," he said impatiently, "I think we've established definitively that our boy Murphy has the hots for both of you. Could we get back to the business at hand?"

Cheryl gave him a look. "Down, Steve." She smirked at his scowl, then sobered. "We've determined that at least four of the unusual drownings along the coast in the past two months have identical MOs to the Tallon homicide."

A stray thought burrowed into Steve's consciousness and hung there, buzzing at him. "Dad -- did cousin Keefe happen to mention how long he'd been in the country?"

Mark shook his head. "No he didn't, although somehow I got the impression it hadn't been very long." He saw the deliberate look on his son's face. "Steve, you can't be serious."

"Dad, California gets a rash of these weird, identical, waterlogged murders just at the same time, more or less, that cousin Keefe comes looking for his American kinfolk and spouting tales of ancestors with flippers!" He sounded exasperated.

Mark looked unconvinced. "That doesn't strike you as merely coincidental, son?"

"No," Steve said obstinately. "Especially with this 'monster from the sea' crap."

Mulder had been staring out of the windows at the ocean. "You know, that name keeps ringing a bell."

Steve swiveled towards him, delighted to have a target who was at least in the same room, so his father couldn't fault him for picking on someone behind his back. He was thoroughly sick and tired of the case; maybe he could annoy Mulder enough so the Feds would go away and leave him alone. "Along with Quasimodo, no doubt."

Mulder's eyes acknowledged the challenge, though his expression remained unchanged. "Maybe. But I was thinking of Keefe. And even Murphy."

"Just a minute," Mark broke in, hoping to head off the brewing altercation. "I can look it up on the internet." He glanced at his glowering son. "And that name -- Fin something?"

Steve muttered something blasphemous, then retreated before his father's ominous stare. "Fintan." The set of his mouth warned the others not to pursue that subject just yet.

They watched as Mark messed with his laptop, until he grunted in satisfaction. "Here we are. Fin -- oh." He looked up at his son's angry eyes and grim mouth. "Never mind." He moved the mouse to scroll downwards. "Okay. According to this, Keefe means handsome."

"I suppose if you like the dark sleek type," Scully commented dryly. Cheryl rolled her eyes. Steve and Mulder nobly ignored them both.

Mark chuckled and continued his search. "This is interesting. Murphy means warrior from the sea."

Silence followed this revelation; Mulder was the first to break it. "Your 'cousin' certainly has a sense of humor," he remarked. He let his eyes travel across their faces. "He's also the selkie."

Mark looked up from the screen. "In which case, both of you ladies could be in danger, if the way he looked at you is any clue."

"But we're both single and unattached," Cheryl objected.

Mulder flicked a glance at Steve, who stood scowling, arms folded. "I suspect Murphy thinks otherwise, wouldn't you agree, Lieutenant?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Steve snarled, fed up with the whole ridiculous business. "Is it just me, or don't any of the rest of you have a problem with the concept of a murderous seal rampaging around the countryside looking for women and posing as a pretentious hack of a writer?" He flung out of the room outside to the deck, to stand staring at the ocean, furious with them and with himself.

After a time, he became aware that Scully had slipped out to join him. "If it makes you feel any better, Steve, just because I recognize that there really is a good chance that Mulder's right doesn't mean I wouldn't much rather have a more sensible explanation."

Steve grimaced. "I wish I had one." He turned to face her, leaning an elbow on the railing. "What worries me is that I'm gradually getting the nasty feeling I'm not going to find it."

The perturbingly clear blue eyes fastened their gaze on his. "Don't tell me you're starting to believe," she said, only half joking.

"No. But I'm positive Murphy's involved somehow, and there's something about him that's definitely unsettling."

"Like what?" Scully asked, intrigued.

Steve shook his head. "Haven't pinned it down yet." His eyes grew remote for a moment, then focused on the woman standing next to him. "Enough of this silliness. Are we still on for dinner tonight?"

She smiled. "Of course. I'm looking forward to it."

"I suggest you avoid seafood," a dry voice broke in. They turned to see Mulder standing there, regarding them in his typically enigmatic fashion.

Steve raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

"Meaning you might not want to attract any more attention than you already have," Mulder replied.

Steve made no effort to conceal his exasperation. "Just what are you insinuating, Mulder?" The ice in his eyes was starting to smolder.

Mulder, on the other hand, if anything looked sleepier. "You two had met before he showed up here, hadn't you?"

"No, we hadn't," Steve said with some heat. "I rather think I'd have remembered the supercilious bastard."

Mulder seemed disinclined to drop the subject, but a look from Scully apparently distracted him into another direction entirely. "So you're taking my partner out to dinner tonight." It was not only a statement, but a challenge, delivered in as offensive a tone as only Mulder could employ.

It worked, too. Steve's eyes ignited. "You got a problem with that?" he inquired softly, dangerously, the words like steel wrapped in velvet.

Mulder flicked a glance at his partner, who gave him a bright, expectant look and showed no inclination to leave. He jerked his head towards the kitchen. "A word with you, Lieutenant?" he suggested, his monotone even more unaffected than usual.

Scully gave him a withering look. "That's all right, Mulder," she said disgustedly. "You two go ahead and bang horns out here. I'm going to go in and talk to more pleasant company with more sense."

Silently, they watched her leave, then Steve turned the twin of the toothily unpleasant smirk he had used earlier on Murphy towards Mulder. "You were about to tell me why I should keep my hands off your -- Dana," he invited insolently.

An answering spark leapt in the other man's eyes. "She doesn't need whatever line of bull you're likely to hand her, Sloan."

"Oh? And what might that be?" He knew it sounded childish, but he decided he didn't care. "Have you noticed that she seems to be enjoying the attention?"

Mulder really did have more than one expression; now he was definitely, obviously angry. "Right now, attention is the last thing she needs. She needs to be safe." He shut up abruptly, as if he had revealed more than he intended.

Well, no kidding. Steve had already seen the shadow lurking in those clear blue eyes. He was still too riled to be generous, however. "So who appointed you watchdog, bodyguard and interfering busybody?" he asked, still fairly offensively.

Mulder had had enough. Ordinarily, he was unaffected by considerations of looks, brawn, charm, and other sordid details, secure in his superior intelligence and intuition, but this LAPD detective for some reason made him painfully aware of his deficiencies in other areas. Maybe because Sloan was not only more than amply blessed in those areas, but because he was equally comfortable in his own skin. In any event, Mulder's ability to seem eternally unconcerned evaporated with a rush. "Listen, Sloan, she's my partner. She and I have seen things which would turn the normal person's hair white and wake him screaming in the night. She's watched my back and saved me from myself more times than I care to count. She deserves, and she gets, the same from me." He waved towards the house. "I presume you and Ms. Banks operate the same way." His voice was calmer, but his eyes were still hot.

Steve wasn't satisfied. "You sure make it sound like you want it to be more."

Amazingly, Mulder flushed. "I don't run off every man who takes an interest in her, if that's what you're asking. Just the dangerous ones."

Steve gave him a skeptical look. "You have a problem with her dating cops?"

"No." Mulder stared at him meaningfully. "Just cops who are inexplicably connected to an ongoing investigation -- and who seem to be rather ambivalent about their relationships with their own partners."

The rage was there and accessible; it was just a question of how much he wanted to let out. "All right, Mulder, I'll give you two options: cough up what the hell you're talking about, or I'll beat it out of you."

Equally irate, Mulder started to raise a fist, then laughed suddenly. "You really don't see it, do you?" Having started, he couldn't stop laughing, until Steve moved closer and hissed, "You've got five seconds to tell me before I knock your head off, regardless of who's watching; I'll think of some excuse."

Coughing, Mulder held up a hand. "Listen, Sloan. The selkie, Murphy, whatever the hell his name is, has already shown a tendre for both of our partners. As soon as he realizes you're interested in Scully, that will pique his desire. And the fact that you and Ms. Banks have a very unpartnerlike way of looking at each other puts her in the highly desirable category as well."

Temper slightly but not totally dampened, Steve lowered the threatening hand. "Assuming I want to go along with your lunatic theory."

Mulder made an exasperated noise. "Sloan, can you honestly tell me you didn't think there was something seriously wrong about 'Cousin' Keefe?"

Damn. So much for venting his frustration in a good, thorough knock-down drag-out. "No." He scrubbed his hands over his face. "Selkie theories aside, my gut's been yelling at me ever since I got home and found him here." He met the raised eyebrows with a shrug. "I wanted to check the Tallon scene again, and ended up taking a swim --"

His voice trailed off as he remembered the stranger aspects of his afternoon's diversion. And where he'd seen eyes like Murphy's before -- no. That road he absolutely refused to follow.

Mulder spotted the flicker of shock in Steve's eyes. "What is it?" he asked quietly.

Steve shook his head. "Never mind. Your insane theory is getting to me, is all." He stretched tense shoulders. "Look, Mulder. For your information, I have no intention of doing anything to hurt Dana. Other than that, I see no need to answer to you. You're just going to have to live with it." He turned on his heel and walked back inside; after a pensive glance seaward, Mulder followed him.

And found his antagonist no calmer. "Dad, I don't care what Murphy said -- this seal/selkie nonsense has gone far enough!"

Mulder edged over next to Cheryl, who seemed to be in the only neutral corner. "What's going on?"

She grimaced. "Mark was playing with that internet site, and looked up the name of the woman Murphy claimed is their common ancestor. Ronnad, I think Mark said."

Mulder had a feeling he knew what had caused the explosion. "Let me guess. It means seal."

She nodded. "Got it in one. Steve's definitely not happy."

Mulder laughed. It wasn't a particularly pleasant sound. "You know, I can think of worse animals." His glance swerved towards Scully, who was frowning, then back to Cheryl. "I was under the impression he was seeing some woman in Fresno."

Cheryl shot him a look. "What makes you think we discuss our personal lives, Mr. Mulder?"

He leaned closer. "Call me Fox. Not many people get to. Because you are involved in each other's personal lives, whether you admit it or not." His eyes weren't sleepy at all now. "How about a pact between you and me, Cheryl, to keep them from injuring themselves?"

He mistook her silence for assent. "Good," he agreed, and wandered off, leaving her to make the unwilling realization that what had started out as an uneasy triangle had now transformed itself into a very uncomfortable trapezoid. Unwilling to hang around any longer, she made her excuses and left, to drive home pondering Mulder's words and wishing her traitorous mind would occupy itself with something, anything else.

Mulder's warning notwithstanding, Steve took Scully to a small restaurant up the coast which enjoyed an extremely well-deserved reputation for good seafood. While working their way through an excellent dinner, they discovered they had friends in common, including the irascible Ron Wagner, and Steve regaled the attractive agent with tales of the different, explosive cases he and Wagner had handled together, as well as the slew of practical jokes they had played on each other. Although her own sense of humor was usually fairly dry, Scully had the most infectious giggle Steve had ever heard. The sillier the story, the more she giggled.

Of course, Scully had concluded fairly quickly that she found Steve's smile totally irresistible, and that the giggles tended to encourage the smile. She giggled again, just to watch the grin break out once more.

Eventually, both confessed their complicity, which set off another round of hilarity. Scully finally gasped to a stop. "Steve, I think we need to get some air."

He agreed with her. Maybe fresh oxygen would quell the bubbles of craziness. He settled the check, and they wandered outside, to stand admiring the stars hanging over the midnight-dark Pacific.

"It's beautiful," she said wonderingly, gazing at the water. The moonlight caressed her face, giving the fair skin the sheen of alabaster, threading faint twinkles of gold through her hair. A voice deep in the recesses of his mind insinuated itself into his brain.

So might the ancient goddesses of Erin themselves have looked.

Startled, he blinked, and the voice was gone, but the light in her face remained. "Yes, it is," he said softly, deep in his throat, and bent his head to hers.

He tasted -- wonderful, Scully thought. A trace of salt, as if from the ocean breeze; whiskey, although he had had only the one glass before dinner; and something she couldn't identify, but which reminded her of safety and security. Then she looked up into his eyes, and quickly revised her impression; the fires dancing in them couldn't be considered safe by any stretch of the imagination. She smiled at herself and pulled his head down so he could capture her lips once more.

Steve was equally enjoyably disoriented. Something about this woman reached into his mind, his soul, honest and unafraid, to beckon to the white heat very few people saw now, inviting it to add its intensity to their very mutual attraction. She was dangerous, exhilaratingly so, and his mind was full of her. Gently at first, then much harder, he kissed her, reveling in the light in her eyes and the heat of her touch.


	7. Danger in the Water

"You're up early this morning," Mark commented, not quite sneaking up on his son, who stood sipping some juice. Steve was dressed for swimming, and didn't look quite awake yet. "Or -- should I say late?" he added wickedly, enjoying the inadvertent guilty twitch Steve had exhibited in similar situations for years, never, to his chagrin, quite able to get rid of it.

"Uh -- I'm going for a swim, Dad," Steve said hastily, and practically ran down the steps to the beach.

His father nodded to himself smugly. "Just got in, I imagine." He watched with pride mixed with concern as his son dove into the waves, and decided to sit outside, binoculars within reach. Steve's scoffing notwithstanding, Mark wasn't sure if he was totally willing to dismiss Mulder's theory. And, after last night especially, Steve might very well now be a target.

Steve had set himself an arbitrary point on land to reach and was doing the butterfly, enjoying the power in his shoulders as he leapt through the water, when he heard a voice in his head.

Warnings are meant to be heeded, cousin.

He glanced sideways, somehow unsurprised to see the great seal, chocolate eyes observing him unblinkingly. But this was his element, and he was damned if he was going to be intimidated in it. He paused long enough to grin at the beast. "Only when they're warranted," he said breathlessly. "Cousin." Shoulders tensed, strong arms curved upwards and down again, and Steve surged through the waves, trying to shake his pinniped companion. Every time his eyes slid to the side, however, he saw the seal passing him, and he could hear the pennywhistle persistently pursuing its wild melody. Finally, he plunged downwards, diving deep, then shot skyward, up through the surf, and flipped over onto his back. He didn't have to look to know he wasn't alone.

"All right," he said finally. "I give. Why me?"

There was no response, although he sensed a certain air of disapproval emanating from the animal.

"Seriously." Now, that was funny, he thought, considering he was talking to a seal. "I'm tired of cryptic little hints. If there's something I'm supposed to know, then tell me in plain English."

It is not the nature of my folk to be direct. The mental voice definitely sounded cross.

Steve got vertical and started treading water, so he could look the thing in the eye. "Well, it's not in my nature to play word games with marine mammals."

The seal contemplated the man solemnly as they drifted with the tide. You are impertinent, Fintan. But I will show you your heritage once more -- all of it.

Steve regarded the huge creature warily, unsure whether he cared for the emphasis on the last words. Behind it he could see other seals approaching, playing in the surf.

Swim with us, cousin.

As they came abreast of the Sloan beach, the great seal turned seaward, then stopped, floating. Climb on my back, Fintan.

He hesitated at first; then he saw the wave, still distant, and divined the animal's intent. He slid a leg over its flank, marvelling again at the silkiness of its fur. Man and seal waited, tense with anticipation, as the perfect wave rolled inexorably toward them.

Seeing the multitude of sleek brown heads bobbing in the surf, Mark lifted the binoculars, startled to see his son riding the largest seal he had ever seen, paddling away from the shore. Far out in front, the giant wave beckoned. He continued to watch, unable to look away.

Remember, cousin. You are strong, but more vulnerable than you think.

Then powerful muscles bunched, and the great animal burst through the waves, heading for the monster curling before them. The music rose to an insistent level, multiple pennywhistles squealing and bending the notes. Steve felt the salt tang on his face, in his mouth and nose, on his body, its briskness invigorating. He threw back his head and whooped with the sheer pleasure of the experience. Then the seal slowed to a stop, turning, and the wave was upon them.

Somehow, Steve found himself on his feet, balancing on the seal's broad back, surfing the most incredible wave he had ever encountered. The exhilaration exploded in him, as did the knowledge the seal had tried to impart previously in such a frustrating fashion.

Its tone was less friendly and more inhuman. You understand now, do you not, cousin?

He couldn't quite control the instinctive recoil, and one foot slipped slightly; although he regained his balance, his footing was now less sure.

The seal sensed the change. Now, Fintan, understand the whole. Somehow, it blurred, and shifted into a shape he had never seen before, startling him. As he watched, taken aback, it dove straight into the wave, hurling him forward at the last minute. Unprepared for the sudden movement, he went flying, hitting the wave head on, deep in the strongest part of the curl.

The force of the water hit him like a sledgehammer, knocking him momentarily out of time. Dazed, he was only dimly aware of seal bodies underneath him once more, tugging him shoreward, until he felt a sudden searing pain along his right temple. He blinked blurred eyes open, trying hard to focus, but the -- seal/man/monster -- standing next to him wouldn't settle into any of those shapes distinctly. It held up an appendage, exactly what kind he couldn't determine, but which came complete with a now bloody claw embedded with bits of shell.

You have run low on luck, cousin. Remember.

Then it picked him up and flung him savagely into the shallows, to lie senseless, wavelets lapping against his motionless body.

An appalled Mark had seen the whole thing. At first awed by the apparently perfect harmony between man and beast, he watched in horror as the expensive binoculars picked up enough of the shapeshifting for him to comprehend it and to guess the creature's intent. He had already called 911, and was running for the beach even as Steve's unconscious body hit it. By the time he had pulled his son out of the water, sirens could be heard wailing nearby, and the seals were gone.

There were lights, and voices. And hands, touching him gently, evoking images of curious, playful seal pups, and he flinched, setting off agonizing pain in his head. Then a voice he thought he knew.

"Steve? Steve, buddy, can you hear me?"

He moaned and tried to turn his head to escape the light pressing uncomfortably at his eyelids, but the pain stabbed again, and he subsided, submitting meekly to Jesse's quick but thorough examination as the young doctor finished giving quiet instructions to the nurses.

"Steve. Come on, buddy. Blink for me once, and I'll let you go off with the pretty nurses," he coaxed, his touch deft and gentle.

The light hurt. For that matter, he hurt. But he knew better than to be uncooperative. It took all the concentration he could muster to lift 300-pound eyelids, but he eventually succeeded, identifying the concerned but blurry countenance of his best friend leaning over him.

"There you go, big guy," Jesse said, vastly relieved.

He swallowed, and tried to smile, but fire streaked down the side of his head, provoking an immediate and unpleasant response from the sword in his skull. It was too much effort to stay awake, and, frankly, it hurt too much to try. He closed his eyes, unable to keep the hovering darkness at bay, vaguely aware of the comforting coolness of a narcotic easing into his body, content to leave the situation in Jesse's capable hands.

Jesse walked into Steve's room a few hours later, unsurprised to find Mark there, watching his son sleep. "Thought I'd find you here," he remarked, glancing automatically at the monitors. Steve's vitals were reassuring. "Has he awakened?"

Mark shook his head. "No, but he hasn't been restless, either, which I find encouraging, assuming there's nothing ominous in those CT films."

Jesse finished putting the last one in the viewer. "They look pretty good. I'm pretty sure we're dealing with your garden variety concussion. There's no sign of any brain damage -- you said he wasn't unconscious in the water very long though."

"No. And I got down there just as --" Mark's hands shook suddenly as he remembered what he had seen.

Jesse flashed him a look of concern. "Are you all right, Mark? You've been shaky since you brought him in -- much more than when he's been hurt worse."

Mark gave him a surprised look. "I suppose I have. Maybe because the ocean's the one place I usually don't have to worry about him." He really didn't want to discuss the -- thing -- he'd seen. He moved over to the viewer, contemplating Steve's films.

Jesse wandered over next to him. "Everything really does look good, Mark. He got off easy this time -- he's concussed, of course, and banged up a bit, but somehow he managed not to break any ribs for once. I do want to keep an eye on this one spot right here to rule out any subdural hematoma, but that shouldn't require more than a day or so." He pointed to the wound near Steve's temple. "It was pretty nasty looking. I can't guarantee it won't scar, even though my stitches always got high marks when I did surgery rotations."

Mark looked thoughtful. "I'm still trying to figure out how he got it. I didn't see anything big or sharp enough at that part of the beach."

Jesse had an odd look on his face. "You know, Mark, it was kind of weird. Amanda was in the ER briefly while I was working on Steve, and she asked me to save anything I found in the wound."

"Like what?" Mark asked, puzzled.

The younger doctor blew out a breath. "That's what was even weirder. There were bits of shell in it." He held up a hand to forestall Mark's question. "I saved them for her - she's playing with them now."

A nasty picture was forming in Mark's mind, especially in light of what he didn't want to remember seeing. "Jesse, it was hard for me to tell, because Steve's head was bleeding pretty freely, but exactly what are the dimensions of the wound?"

Jesse's eyes flickered involuntarily to Steve's face and back again, not quite meeting Mark's eyes. "It's about three, three and a half inches long, one inch at the widest point, probably half where it tapers. It's deep at the top, almost to the bone." He looked very uncomfortable. "If I didn't know better, I'd say it was made by a very large claw or fingernail."

Mark's answer was forestalled by Amanda's voice paging Jesse. He picked up the phone and listened, frowning. "Amanda, Mark's here in Steve's room with me. Do you want us to come down? Oh. Okay." He hung up and gave the older man a strange look. "She's coming up. What's going on, Mark?"

Mark shook his head. "I wish I knew."

Steve was still sleeping when Amanda arrived, carrying a plastic bag containing what looked like coarse sand. She was scowling. "Mark. Good. I'm glad you're here. I need a witness."

"Witness?" the other doctors repeated automatically.

"That's right," Amanda said angrily. "I intend to find out what your son was thinking, taking on a killer without any backup."

"What killer?" a hoarse voice croaked from the vicinity of the bed. They turned to see the patient trying to sit up.

"Steve, what the blazes do you think you're doing?" Jesse exclaimed, rushing forward to ease the hurt man back down again.

Steve's eyes blinked at him owlishly and promptly crossed with the vain effort to focus. "Jess, I don't feel so hot," he complained, and Jesse grabbed the basin just in time.

Steve lay back, wincing as pain stabbed through his abused head. "How'd I get here?" he asked.

Amanda made a disapproving noise. "The conventional method -- the ambulance your father called. Whatever possessed you, anyway?"

The blurry eyes fastened onto her. "What are you talking about?" His puzzled gaze found his father. "Dad -- what happened?"

Mark gave him a long, measuring look, then glanced at Jesse. "Possible temporary memory loss," he commented. He returned his attention to his son. "What's the last thing you remember, Steve?"

He considered the question. "I was swimming -- and --" He reached for the elusive memory to no avail. "I was swimming." He looked up at his father. "What -- did I wipe out the hard way?"

A shiver crawled up Mark's spine. Maybe his eyes had tricked him, and Steve had been alone. But he knew what he had seen out there in the water, and he hadn't mistaken the callousness with which the thing had injured his son. He licked suddenly dry lips, wishing he could think of a less unlikely way to say it. "Son -- I saw you swimming with the seals --" He broke off at the look of sudden turmoil in Steve's eyes. "What is it, son?"

"I thought I dreamed it," Steve muttered. He shuddered, and didn't quite succeed in suppressing a moan as pain slashed through his skull and down his face. It distracted him, though; he lifted a hand to slowly explore the area near the bandage, then blinked at Jesse. "It burns, Jess," he said softly. "What'd I hit, anyway?"

Amanda was still furious with him. "More like what hit you. And, from the looks of the gash, it was your damp friend who collects seashells."

There was no mistaking his instinctive recoil as an image of impenetrable brown eyes and strong, sleek body flashed across his brain. "Oh, my God."

"What?" all three asked at once.

Steve swallowed. "Much as I hate to admit it," he said, a little thickly, "Mulder was right."

Mark saw again in his mind's eye the creature which had almost killed his son. "The selkie?" he asked.

"Yeah," Steve said slowly.

"What's a selkie?" Jesse asked with interest.

Steve ignored him. "It was seal, something else I can't exactly describe. I -- it invited me to swim, Dad -- like we did the other day."

Mark stared. "You met this -- this thing before?" he questioned, temper stirring as he digested the significance of Steve's statement.

Steve winced. "I didn't know before, Dad. I didn't really know this time, either." He reached up to touch the bandage cautiously. "He marked me." Now the shaking started, threatening to become uncontrollable despite the agony in his head. "Son of a bitch," he gritted, clenching his jaw against it, trying to stay focused.

Jesse was at his side instantly, checking his eyes. "You should probably try to rest, Steve." He glanced over at Mark. "What's a selkie?" he asked again.

Steve wasn't inclined to cooperate. "I need to talk to Cheryl," he mumbled. "And Dana. They're both in danger."

"Danger?" Jesse repeated, eyes round. "From this selkie thing?" He gazed at the intent faces. "Would someone please tell me what a selkie is?"

Steve moved his head restlessly, eyes tightening with pain. "It's dangerous, is what it is." He started to struggle up. "I have to get out of here."

"Whoa, Steve," Jesse exclaimed, as he and Mark each grabbed a shoulder and exerted pressure. "You're not going anywhere just yet."

"I'm all right," Steve said petulantly. "I have work to do, and I need to talk to Cheryl. And --"

"Not like this, son," Mark said gently.

"Dad -- he's -- it's out there. I have to stop it."

Mark caught Jesse's eye and mouthed something at him; preoccupied with his need to get out of bed, Steve didn't notice. "Son, listen to me. Cheryl was by earlier, while you were sleeping. She was going to contact Mulder and Scully and brief them. Everything's under control."

Steve was unaware of Jesse preparing a solution until the doctor had already introduced it into his IV. "What are you doing, Jess?" he asked suspiciously.

Jesse gave him a cheerful grin. "Doping you up, buddy," he said blithely, stepping back out of range.

"Dammit, Jess, I need to get out of here now!" Steve snarled, the final words starting to slur. His eyelids were so heavy now, and the burning pain was starting to recede. "Traitor," he accused indistinctly, and surrendered to the drug, muscles relaxing as it took the edge off the pain and sent him adrift once more.

Jesse shook his head. "He fights that stuff so much now -- sedating him's a bitch." He gave Mark a hopeful look. "Tell me what's going on, Mark?"

Quickly, succinctly, as they walked back to his office, Mark brought Jesse and Amanda up to speed. Whe he finished, Jesse let out a low whistle. "Wow. And you really saw it?"

Mark collapsed into his desk chair. "I definitely saw something. I'm just having a hard time deciding what sort of something I saw." His mouth was grim. "Whatever it was, Steve was right about one thing. It's definitely dangerous."

Amanda had an abstracted look. "What did Steve mean about swimming the other day?"

Mark shook his head. "I don't know. He mentioned going out up the coast a ways --"

Her eyes narrowed. "Before or after Tallon was murdered?"

Mark reflected. "A few days after, I think -- he was on his way back from Fresno." He snapped his fingers. "It was the same day that Murphy showed up -- and Steve was acting pretty strange, as I recall."

"How?" Jesse asked curiously.

"He took an instant dislike to the man," Mark replied thoughtfully. "Almost as if Murphy insisted on showing him something he didn't want to face." He held up his hands to fend off their questions. "Don't ask. I meant to raise the issue with him before, but I didn't get a chance."

"Well, you may want to park in his room and get it out of him as soon as he wakes up," Amanda pointed out acidly. "That man had escape written all over him. Unless you've hidden his clothes, he's history."

Jesse snorted with amusement, and Mark grinned.

She gave them a dirty look. "What's so funny?"

The men exchanged a look of duplicitous glee; then Jesse pointed out, still laughing, "That shouldn't be too much of a problem. Even in L.A., he's not going to get far wearing just a bathing suit."


	8. Wages of Folly

Steve, on the other hand, had different ideas entirely. Although his head still hurt when he awoke, he was able to first sit, then stand up, without being visited by the ominous dizziness and nausea, and the pain from the gash on his face had subsided from searing to moderately tolerable burning. He was most of the way to the door, with minimal difficulty, when the question of appropriate attire occurred to him. A moment's reflection brought him to the same conclusion Jesse had reached earlier. He considered his options briefly, then started to grin until his face suggested he refrain.

A few minutes later, he slipped out of the laundry room, having succeeded in liberating a clean set of scrubs which fit, more or less, probably less, and would at least get him home without attracting unnecessary attention or being detained for indecent exposure. Or so he thought. His planned escape route apparently was no great secret, because, as he pushed open the last door from the southwest corner stair to the parking garage, he discovered the very person he was trying to avoid.

"Going somewhere, son?" Mark's voice was amused; his eyes were not.

Steve sucked in a breath and let it out, counting to ten. "Dad -- I have to talk to Cheryl. And Dana. And Mulder. And not from a hospital bed."

Mark leaned against the wall, arms folded. "Not until you talk to me first."

"Dad, I --"

"And then I'll drive you home to change myself," Mark finished.

Mouth still open to argue with his father, Steve closed it, reopened it, and closed it again while he considered the offer. Finally, he nodded. "Okay, Dad. You win. But can we talk in the car?"

On the way home,he described the bizarre swim the afternoon Murphy came to visit. "You know, Dad, screwy as it sounds, for a while there, in the water at least, it really didn't bother me that a seal was talking to me, or that it called me cousin, or that I was hearing phantom music, or any of that. It was such an incredible experience. And then -- by the time I got home, I guess I'd convinced myself that I'd imagined it."

"And the wet suit wouldn't have helped because you'd already been in the water," Mark mused. He shook his head ruefully. "No wonder you stiffened up when Murphy started going into detail." He gave his son a sharp look. "That name -- you said you knew what it meant when Murphy used it."

Steve's mouth tightened. "Yeah."

"But -- oh." Mark slid another look at his son's impassive face. "The seal?"

"Yeah."

"You think Murphy's involved more than he's let on." It wasn't a question.

Steve sighed. "Oh, he's involved, all right. I'm just not sure exactly how or how much. Maybe he's the advance man, working hand in flipper with my pinniped friend."

They had reached the house; Mark trailed behind his son as Steve headed downstairs to acquire more appropriate clothing. "Son -- I saw that -- creature that attacked you."

Steve froze, shirtless, one leg half in, half out of the scrub pants. "What are you talking about, Dad?"

Mark gave him a puzzled look. "Didn't you see it?"

Having successfully negotiated the removal of the scrubs, Steve grabbed the jeans hanging over a chair, trying not to jolt his tender head any more than necessary. "Dad -- it had already tossed me head on into the middle of the wave to end all waves. I saw something, but it was pretty blurry; and I'm not sure if the stuff jumbled up in my own brain is accurate." He started to add the only natural reminder that he had a concussion, then thought better of the idea; the last thing he wanted to do was remind his father of it.

He might as well have stood on his head and wished for the moon. Mark's eyes narrowed as he gazed at his son critically, at length. "That's to be expected with a concussion," he commented pointedly.

"Dad --"

Mark held up a stern hand. "I'm not going to hinder you here, son. Simply be advised that, should you fall flat on your face, crow will turn up on the dinner menu."

Steve laughed, then swore and grabbed for his cheek as the movement pulled at the wound. "Damn. Can't guffaw like that for a while." He glanced at his father. "So what was it you saw, anyway?"

Mark shivered involuntarily. "It was big, I remember that. It was at least a good two heads taller than you, and much broader. It had -- claws." His eyes slid involuntarily to Steve's face; his son reflexively lifted his hand towards the bandage. "And -- teeth, almost fangs, I think. Those were harder to see clearly."

"You saw a lot more than I did," Steve said grimly. "But what bothers me is that I have a vague memory of seeing the seal turn into it."

His father nodded. "That I saw too." A chill was spreading down his neck and back. "Son -- just what exactly did you stumble into?"

Steve made a frustrated sound. "Seal monsters, phantom whistles, and cryptic cousins? Hell if I know -- wait a minute." He stared at his father, eyes wide with astonishment. "Now I know what it was about Murphy --"

"Besides what we've already determined?" Mark inquired.

"Yeah." He sank down onto the bed, apprehension still written largely on his face. "His eyes. They're the same as the seal's."

Mark gaped at him. "You can't be serious."

Steve spread his hands helplessly. "Dad, I didn't say it made sense. Hell, I can't explain any of this -- any logic I might have been able to apply went out the window when I started hearing musicians who weren't there and talking to assorted marine life." His head was starting to throb, but he did his best to ignore it. "I need to call Cheryl."

Still barechested, he padded out to his living room and collected the telephone where he had left it what seemed like eons ago. "Cheryl? It's me. I'm home. Could you swing by?" He listened for a moment, a faint trace of exasperation in his eyes. "Of course my father knows where I am. And I'm still in one piece."

She must have delivered a snappy comeback, however, because the tension in his jaw eased, and he laughed. "Okay, I'm not. And I'll even put on a shirt for you."

Mark raised a curious eyebrow. "She giving you that hard time you so richly deserve?"

Steve grinned, slightly cautiously. "Yeah. Said if I didn't want to have my bell rung, I'd better be lying down, histrionically damaged and appropriately bandaged."

His father laughed. "Could be done. Here, let me help you with that shirt."

After reassuring herself that her partner was in no imminent danger of falling flat on his face, Cheryl curled up in one corner of the couch and listened to his story with some concern. "Steve -- if Murphy is mixed up in whatever is going on -- well, he knows where you live."

"Cheryl, I can't go around for the next God knows how long looking over my shoulder for a giant seal."

She gave him a look. "That's not exactly what I meant," she said, not quite mildly.

He felt a twinge of guilt. "I'm sorry, Cheryl. Frankly, this whole thing has been a little hard to get used to." Without really thinking, he reached over and took her hand, squeezing it gently.

In the time they had been partners, despite the occasional hand on the arm or shoulder, they had touched seldom, and skin on skin of any kind even more rarely. The embraces they had exchanged after Steve's encounter with the Wyler organization had been isolated incidents which both preferred to view as the result of highly unusual situations and tensions, unlikely to recur. Now, Cheryl felt the warmth of his hand on her own, and her treacherous eyes refused to look anywhere except into his intense blue gaze. "I was so afraid for you," she said softly, involuntarily, and leaned forward to his waiting mouth.

What was happening to him lately? he wondered remotely. So many bad, even deadly, relationships in the past, and so much loneliness, longing for someone who would fit herself into that empty place and make him whole. And now -- this aspect of his life had taken on an independent character of its own, it seemed, to tantalize him with an excess of infinitely desirable partners, each more than capable of helping him find what he sought, each more than suitable in her own way. He thought he should feel guilty for being unable to make a decision, but his gut instinct was adamant that this was a necessary part of the process before he could legitimately ask any one of them to share his life.

All this swept through his mind virtually instantly. Her eyes, like dark amber, had their own light, not as coolly clear as Dana's, nor as soothingly warm as Rachel's, but with a soft glow, a resonance surrounding them that he had never seen before. For the life of him, he couldn't think of any intelligent reason, although there undoubtedly were several, not to kiss her.

The first touch was tentative, as his mouth sought hers hesitantly, then surer as he sensed the velvet softness he had felt months earlier and not dared to seek since. This time, there was no instinctive separation as she returned the pressure, at first gentle, then more demanding. He slid his hand behind her neck, molding it to the soft curve, and drew her in closer, losing himself in the intoxication of her lips.

After apparent centuries, she disengaged herself delicately, replacing her mouth on his with gentle fingers. They stared at each other, both for the moment incapable of speech. Finally, never taking his eyes from hers, Steve captured the fingers lightly caressing his lips, kissed them, and with great deliberation reached for her, seeking her mouth once more.

She anticipated his intention and interposed her hand again. "Steve --"

He tried again, with similar results, and sighed. "What."

Cheryl smiled at him tentatively. "That was lovely."

"But?" he asked, gazing at her intently.

She had to ask, even though she wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer. "Steve -- you know I care for you. But -- are you sure this is what you're looking for -- that it's not something we're likely to regret?"

He was silent, concentrating on the circles his thumb was drawing on her hand. Finally, he stirred. "No, I'm not." Now he did look up, fixing that intense stare on her face. "But I need to know, Cheryl." He reached for her again.

She shook her head. "Steve, I'm serious. I'm not sure I can make the choice between partners and lovers. And it's not as if you aren't -- distracted -- as it is."

He contemplated the smooth, tawny skin, the luminescent eyes, the infinitely kissable lips. "Cheryl," he pointed out with a tinge of impatience, "that's partly why I need to know."

She blinked. "I thought you were enjoying the 'is-she-or-isn't-she' routine," she said lightly, trying to avoid falling into the compelling blue depths.

His eyebrows started to descend. "Was that all it was?" he asked, capturing her eyes despite her attempt to avoid his.

She had to at least make an effort, Cheryl thought with a shade of panic, feeling her body doing its best to undermine her resolution. "Steve, don't look at me like that. You know I hate it when you give me that look --"

The tiny fires deep in his eyes leapt, so enticingly, and she couldn't, didn't want to resist. "No, it wasn't," she whispered, and pulled him to her.

Unfortunately, the question of the future nature of the relationship was fated to go unanswered for the time being. Steve had only just begun to explore the sweetness of her mouth when the telephone rang, his pager beeped, and Mark called down the stairs, all simultaneously. He tried to ignore them, but all three were insistent, and he finally conceded the point that this was one more issue which was going to have to remain temporarily unresolved.

With commendable coordination, he kissed her again, quickly, stilled the annoying beeping, and answered his phone. "Sloan here. Hang on just a moment." He covered the receiver with his free hand and yelled up the stairs. "Come on down, Dad." He gave Cheryl a rueful grin, and returned to the telephone call. "Yeah. All right. We'll be right there. No, I'm fine. All right."

Mark gave the two of them a quizzical look before speaking, wondering. "There's been another one."

Steve nodded. "I know. That was Mulder." He glanced at his partner, then caught the same expression on his father's face. "Don't you both start. I'm going, I'll be all right. Cheryl, would you mind driving so Dad can put his fears to rest?" But the grin took the sting from the words, and his father returned it, hoping that for once his son would stay out of trouble for a while.

Mulder was pacing, while Scully squatted by the corpse, examining the slashes on its face. "Looks like the others," she commented to her partner. "Sea water, scratches --" She picked at something in one of the wounds. "Bits of shell, crushed throat; same M.O."

Mulder grunted. "Something's not right, Scully."

She dusted off her hands and rose from her hunched position. "What do you mean, Mulder?"

"It's toying with us," he replied. "Till now, there's been a pattern of time and distance. This one doesn't fit. Murphy did it deliberately just to show us that he could."

She looked skeptical. "Are you still dogging that theory that he's the selkie?"

He shrugged. "He fits."

"I realize that you don't like him either, but, if we accept your theory, we have to assume that he's also the thing that attacked me." Steve walked carefully into the room, Mark and Cheryl behind him.

Scully was at his side in an instant, giving him an unfortunately professional once-over. "Steve, are you sure you're all right?" she asked with concern.

"I'm fine," he replied impatiently. "What's out of sync about this, Mulder?"

Mulder explained his pattern theory to the newcomers. "Up to now, your cousin --"

Steve's eyes sparked ice. "He's not my cousin."

Mulder looked unconvinced, but yielded the point. "Whatever. Murphy, the selkie, whatever you want to call him, it, has been working his way systematically down the coast, not killing in the same place. Ever. Until now." He gave Steve an odd look. "Shortly after meeting you, and your, um, unusual encounter in the ocean, after expressing a definite interest in two women who coincidentally are involved with you to one degree or another, he essentially looks to be putting down roots right here in southern California."

The ice in Steve's eyes was superheating. "Are you implying this latest killing is somehow my fault?" he demanded, fists clenching.

Much as he disliked the man, Mulder couldn't force himself to be quite that prejudiced in his opinions. "I don't know," he admitted. "But there's a reason he's staying around, and I just can't shake the feeling it's got something to do with you."

Steve flicked a glance at Cheryl, who shrugged and pulled out her cell phone, ordering an APB on one Keefe Murphy, resident alien. "And what might that be?" he growled.

Mark decided to try his hand at uncertain peacekeeping before the situation got totally out of hand. "You still think he's after Dana and Cheryl, don't you, Mr. Mulder."

The agent nodded. "And your son's likely to end up dead next time if he's not careful," he said, not particularly concerned with the brutality of his warning.

Steve threw up his hands in disgust. "I won't go swimming by myself till this is over, okay?" He glanced over to where the medical examiner's team was preparing to remove the body. "Let Amanda know if you find anything else, okay, Fred?" He started to turn back to the others, and staggered as a wave of fatigue hit him.

"That's it," his father said sharply. "You're going home, to bed, and I don't want any arguments."

Steve tried anyway, but was outvoted. Seeing the tension in his eyes, Mulder unbent slightly. "Don't worry about Scully, Sloan. I'll make sure she's safe. Really." Gingerly, the two men shook hands, with grudging respect, each hoping Mulder wasn't guilty of overoptimism.

After Mark had gone inside, Steve lingered at Cheryl's car. "Want to come inside for a cup of coffee -- or whatever?" he invited, voice caressing the words temptingly.

She took a deep breath. "Maybe we should wait until this is over, Steve," she said reluctantly, trying not to look at the fires leaping in his eyes.

He tried not to let the disappointment into his voice. "And then?" he asked lightly.

Relieved, she gave him a warm smile. "And then at least I can't be accused of taking advantage of a man with a head wound," she teased.

The eyes themselves were dancing now. "I'm going to hold you to that, partner." He leaned into her window before she could guess his intention and stole a quick kiss, then walked off, laughing.

"You're incorrigible," she called after him with a smile, then drove off, chuckling to herself.


	9. How Not to Handle a Selkie

After a quiet couple of hours, during which Mark admirably succeeded in restraining himself from inquiring about his son's condition every few minutes, Steve wished his father a good night and headed downstairs. He had just finished brushing his teeth when a stray thought hit him; he picked up the telephone and dialed Cheryl's number.

There was no answer. He waited a few minutes and tried again, with the same unsatisfactory result. He glanced automatically at his watch; it was barely after ten, and he knew she usually stayed up to watch the late news. He punched the redial button, and listened to the ringing with a growing sense of unease.

He came to an abrupt decision and slid his feet back into his shoes, then ran upstairs. "Dad?"

Mark looked up from his book, frowning. "I thought you and your concussion were going to bed, son."

"I know, Dad," Steve said placatingly. "I need to run over to Cheryl's for a few minutes; she didn't answer her phone." He anticipated his father's objection. "Dad, I promise I'll be careful; but I could just be overreacting. If you don't hear from me within a half hour, though, call in backup, okay?"

The look on his son's face convinced Mark there was no point objecting. "All right, son, but if you do anything foolish I guarantee you'll hear from me."

Steve grinned at him. "I know, Dad. I'll be good."

When he reached Cheryl's house, however, he wasn't so sure. Her lights were on, so she obviously was home; but, when he tried calling her number again, he got the same results as before. He wished he could be sure whether she was all right. He didn't want to go crashing in and surprise her in the bathtub, for instance; but his gut was twitching. He was still debating the issue when he heard a strange noise from inside; and when he glanced at the window, he saw the shadow of the head of a man. A man with a beard.

Something snapped in Steve's brain. He'd already had more than enough of whatever screwiness was happening in his own life; he was desperately tired of Mulder and the FBI agent's obsessive posturing; and he had definitely had his fill of the smug foreigner claiming to be his blood relative. Soundlessly, he opened the door with the spare key he knew Cheryl kept under a flower pot, and eased inside, gun drawn and ready.

She was in the living room, sitting on the couch, watching TV. Except the TV wasn't running, and her eyes were not quite focused. She was breathing, though, and quick, anxious fingers on her wrist confirmed her pulse. He started to turn, and froze as he heard a voice, the soft sound of the seal song drifting behind it.

"It's a slow learner you are, cousin."

Slowly, Steve completed the turn, bringing his gun up to aim at the intruder's chest. "My scholastic deficiencies notwithstanding, Murphy, you're under arrest."

"Oh, yes," came the derisive voice. "The false security of the firearm." Murphy pointed at his own chest. "Go ahead, cousin. Assuming you can bring your overprincipled self to shoot an unarmed man, your weapon will have little to no effect."

Steve gave him a scornful look. "More of your mystic sea legend crap, no doubt," he said, nettled.

That faint alien something he had seen at their meeting at the house surfaced briefly in Murphy's eyes. "All I have shown you, all you have seen, and still you fight it. It's disappointing me you are, Fintan."

Steve exploded. "Don't call me that!" He took a deep breath to steady his nerves. "You're under arrest. Anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney."

Murphy listened with unfeigned interest as Steve finished listing his Miranda rights. "Very considerate, you Americans. Especially when you obviously have other desires." He stood up. "Unfortunately, my schedule will not permit me to engage in that particular diversion." He started moving towards Cheryl.

"Hold it right there, Murphy," Steve snarled. "What did you do to her?"

Murphy stopped obligingly and considered the question. "Let me see. How best to describe it -- ah, I cast what was once called a glamour over her."

"A what?" Steve asked suspiciously.

Murphy sighed. "It is truly regrettable that you missed this part of your education. A glamour. She is not harmed, she is merely -- distracted, unaware of what we do here."

Steve laughed unpleasantly. "Then I guess she won't see me blow you away if you don't turn around and put your hands behind your back."

Murphy laughed in his turn. "She will not -- and neither will I."

"I'm not kidding, Murphy," Steve growled. He started to edge forward, gun still ready, reaching for his handcuffs with his free hand.

Murphy sneered at him. "Perhaps you should try shooting before you fall victim to your own mistaken self-confidence, cousin."

"Why?" Steve grunted, irritated.

Murphy sighed. "Truly, you disappoint me, cousin. I had hoped you would eventually comprehend, but still you refuse to see." He waved at the gun. "Those bullets will cause only minimal damage to this form."

"This -- form?" Steve repeated, not quite stupidly.

The strange eyes briefly held a trace of amusement. "They will not harm me in either seal or selkie shape."

"For Christ's sake," Steve said disgustedly. "Why is it that it keeps coming back to this --"

"Selkie 'business', cousin?" Murphy's voice was unexpectedly sympathetic. "Because it is true, Stee-faun. A selkie is what I am, and always have been. Your bullets cannot harm me. If you had been but more receptive to that which I have attempted repeatedly to impart to you, you would understand. And you would not even now be placing yourself once more in peril."

Steve looked at him in disbelief. "Why now?" he asked, stalling for time, wondering when the cavalry was planning to arrive.

The other man was starting to look irritated. "It's interfering you are, cousin." The voice was losing its smoothness. "I have chosen. Do not dare defy me."

It took a few seconds; then the words sank in, and Steve stared at Murphy, shocked. "I don't care what you think you're doing, pal. You can't have her, and I'm arresting you now." He started to move forward, just as Murphy leapt at him, and squeezed the trigger almost by reflex.

Or thought he did. Yes, he had fired; his vision registered the obvious bullet hole in Murphy's chest as he was borne backwards by the force of the other man's body. The gun and the handcuffs went skittering away as he hit the floor, and he grappled with Murphy, only to feel the beginnings of fur instead of fabric beneath his groping hands. Feeling slightly sick, he glanced up to see the same eyes as before, now belonging to the face and body from his post-injury nightmares. His eyes widened, his grip loosening of its own volition; the creature took advantage of his temporary distraction to pull back, bringing him along, and then hurled him sideways, to fetch up hard against the wall, pain searing through his head and cheek at the impact.

It loomed over him as he attempted to push himself to hands and knees. The faint music was growing stronger, angrier, yet simultaneously more mournful.

"You push me too far, cousin. It was never my desire to harm you."

"Then don't," he wheezed. Something in his ribcage didn't feel right, and his head throbbed. "Give yourself up before anyone else gets hurt." Somehow, he was on his feet again, though unsteadily, and the floor seemed to be miles away.

The selkie shook its head. "I think not, Fintan."

Hands splayed behind him against the wall for support, Steve made himself look, really look, at the selkie. It was huge, at least eight feet tall, and easily over three hundred pounds; he wondered detachedly why he had to keep running into gargantuan evildoers instead of criminals his own size. It had an eerie beauty, the profile sternly fair despite the seeming furry pelt, until it smiled. No human teeth, these; not quite fangs, but larger and sharper than the average wolf's nonetheless.

And the most unearthly, yet overpoweringly compelling eyes, holding the stuff of hundreds of years of history and legend, a loneliness so great it was almost unbearable, far beyond any such he had ever experienced. Whether it was the head injury which increased his perception, he didn't know; but he finally understood the selkie's basic quest, forever ultimately doomed, and the nature of their common bond became clearer.

"Of course," he managed between unwilling gasps for breath, clenching his teeth against the stabbing in his chest. "They're all mortal women. So they eventually die, leaving you alone again." He shuddered. "Just how old are you, anyway?"

It stared at him somberly. "Far older than you can conceive."

"But -- your family -- I still don't understand." He was really starting to hurt now; he set his teeth and hoped fervently he could hold out and keep it talking long enough until help came.

The selkie considered, then shrugged. "By blood you have the right. Even this shape eventually -- wears out. When it nears the end, I transfer my -- essence -- into the babe carried by my final bride. Your ancestor Muirgheal was one such."

The story was so totally preposterous, and somewhat sickening in truth, that he didn't even want to consider believing it. But the most inescapable evidence had just broken at least two of his ribs and even now stood before him, no doubt planning its next move. And there was something about its last statements which set off his gut instinct, a definite warning that something truly terrible was about to happen.

Cautiously, he pushed away from the wall, fighting the urge to clutch at his abused ribcage, taking stock of his fitness for any extended extreme physical activity. His body's response had been known to be more encouraging. Best to keep the selkie talking if possible. Where the hell was his backup, anyway?

"So what happens now?" he asked slowly.

Again the immeasurably sad look. "I will soon reach that time again. I must love, and mate -- and I wish to have more than a few short years before I -- must be reborn."

Steve involuntarily glanced towards Cheryl's motionless body. "Not with my partner, you're not," he growled, surreptitiously flexing his hands. "She doesn't fit your criteria anyway," he said boldly, hoping his memory of Mulder's theory was accurate.

Apparently the selkie didn't include truth-reading among its talents. Steve waited, expecting to be called on the lie, but it seemed more puzzled than outraged. Finally, it inquired, "She and you are not lovers, then?"

If he interpreted the word strictly, he was telling the truth. "No," he said carefully. "She's my friend, but we're partners. We don't have that kind of relationship."

An indefinable expression passed over the selkie's face, and Steve felt a sudden chill. "Very well," it replied. "Then I will have the child of the earth."

The chill turned to icy horror. "What do you mean?" Steve asked thickly, afraid he already knew the answer.

"The beautiful Dana will suit even more," it said levelly.

"Are you insane?" Steve exclaimed, forgetting momentarily that he was conducting a conversation with something not quite human, and therefore possibly qualified himself for such a determination.

"Your loyalty is commendable, Stee-faun, but I have made my decision. You cannot deny the bond between you, and therefore it is my right to claim her."

Steve yanked his phone out of his pocket. "Not if I call her right now and tell her you've targeted her -- you'll have the whole of the FBI on your hairy tail."

It moved, so fast that it blurred, and the instrument was halfway across the room, while he clutched his bleeding arm, which now bore three scratches similar to the one below his temple, all burning in much the same fashion. Its tone was impatient. "Stee-faun, you try my patience to the limit. I would not kill you for blood's sake. But I will maim you, if need be, should you continue to hamper me in my endeavor."

He scrabbled backwards towards his gun, and felt his hand, hunting for it unseen, close on the comforting metal. "Go ahead. Make my day," he gritted, and whipped the gun around, emptying the magazine as the selkie moved towards him.

And dropped the empty firearm, useless now, and useless in any event, for there was no indication that any of the bullets, which he knew he had seen hit the creature, had done any damage whatsoever.

"Were you not listening, Stee-faun?" it asked, as it yanked him up effortlessly, tossing him once more into the wall.

The ribs were definitely broken. His father was certain to be displeased. "You seriously expected me to believe you," he gasped, trying to catch his breath with difficulty.

"My race takes no refuge in falsehoods, cousin." It leaned over him, claw-tipped fingers outstretched. He couldn't prevent the instinctive flinching from the feral appendages.

"So you'd have me believe you're invincible," Steve challenged, and immediately felt the pain explode through his head as the creature struck him, barely sheathing the claws prior to contact.

"Fintan, I would do no such thing. We do not lie."

He stared at the selkie, wishing his eyes would cooperate and focus. "You mean you're actually going to tell me how to stop you?" he asked skeptically.

The eyes were definitely scornful. "No, Stee-faun. I will only tell you that I am not immune to injury. The means you have already been shown."

Obviously, his head injury was worse than he thought. He didn't understand this at all. He said so, with feeling, trying once more to achieve a more perpendicular state with regard to the floor.

The selkie divined his intention. It reached out a hand and shoved him floorwards again, almost as an afterthought, then scooped Cheryl up in its arms. "You have three days to deliver Dana Scully to me, Fintan, and I will return this woman, who undoubtedly deserves better, to you. Otherwise, you will never see her again." It paused, making sure he was listening. "Bring her to where first we met. Do so before the rising of the moon three days hence, Stee-faun, or suffer the consequences."

It turned away, shimmering in Steve's blurred vision as it seemingly disappeared with its burden. Frantic, he finally succeeded in finding his feet, and started to stumble after, only to lose his fragile balance and plummet headlong to the floor, unconscious before he hit it. He was still lying there senseless when the backup unit arrived, no sign of anyone else anywhere in the house.


	10. Back in the Hospital

Disembodied voices. Always disembodied voices, Steve thought resentfully, which seemed to hover cheek by jowl with harsh lights that prodded every single nerve ending in his head. And then that persistent hand pushing up his reluctant eyelids so that yet another light could add insult to injury. Annoyed, he tried to lift his left hand to push it away, and abruptly thought better of it as flames streaked up his arm.

One of the voices took note of his movement. "Steve? Come on, buddy, twitch again for me."

Everyone's a comedian, he thought sourly. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the light and the pain, and growled, "I'll do somersaults if you'll take that damn light away, Jess."

Jesse leaned closer. "Take it easy, Steve. And I'd maintain a real low profile if I were you."

"Jesse, I'm not up to guessing games. What are you talking about?" It still hurt to open his eyes, and his body ached in places he hadn't thought were capable of hurting.

"Your dad," Jesse whispered. "He's on the warpath."

Oh. He had a vague memory of making a foolish promise to his father. Something about not ending up where he was. "Jess, please give me something before he gets here, or I'm in big trouble."

"It's a little too late for that, son."

Jesse was right. He hadn't heard that excessive degree of control in his father's voice for quite some time. Without thinking, he moved restlessly, and gasped with pain as his head reminded him how much abuse it had taken recently. He felt his father's knowledgeable touch on his head and his torn arm, then deftly exploring his battered ribs, while he tried to make himself as small as possible.

Mark's voice was ominously calm, and Steve realized with apprehension that his father was extremely angry indeed. "Bruises, cuts, lacerations, nasty ones by the look of them; broken ribs. I see you must have had a prolonged conversation with cousin Keefe. I'm assuming you lost the argument."

Memory returned with a rush, and he tried to sit up. "Dad -- Cheryl -- I have to talk to Mulder."

His father pushed him back onto the examining table, somewhat taken aback at the degree of his son's weakness. "You're not going anywhere until I discharge you. And that's not going to happen until we have a little chat about a promise you made."

Steve tried to sit up again, and got most of the way before dizziness conspired with his father and Jesse. "Dad -- you can chew me out from here to next Sunday once this is over, and I'll stand still for every word of it. But I've got to get out of here now." He rolled his head in Jesse's direction, eyes pleading. "Jess, please, help me. Tape me up and get me on my feet now."

Mark was unrelenting. "Not without a damned good reason, son."

He winced. Getting around his father in this mood was like trying to cut through a brick wall with a butter knife. He wished his father's face would settle in one spot; it might be easier to talk to him if he'd stop moving around. "Dad -- he -- it's got Cheryl."

Mouth open to launch his tirade, Mark shut it with a snap as the words sank in. Steve's eyes, unfocused as they were, held traces of horror and guilt. The lecture could wait. He put a soothing hand on his son's good arm, noting the clear tension in the muscles. "Steve, I'll call Mulder. They can come here. In fact," he added thoughtfully, "that might not be a bad idea; this is probably a reasonably safe place for Dana to be."

There was too much pain in too many parts of his body for him to effectively resist. "Dad, I --"

His father's eyes were not nearly as angry. "Don't worry, son. We'll make sure you get a chance to talk to them; and then you're going to rest."

His arm was burning unbearably; coherence was starting to become a fleeting quality. "Three days -- rising of the moon -- Dana --" His father's face was receding, and the grayness surrounding him was blotting out everything else.

Mark glanced at Jesse. "He's out again. Might as well let him sleep till they get here, take care of these gouges in his arm, his ribs, the rest of it. Then we can make sure he gets some proper rest."

Jesse nodded. "What do you suppose all that meant, what he was mumbling?" he asked.

Mark's face was grim. "I'm not sure, but I have a bad feeling about it."

True to his word, and although the process was more unpleasant than he had originally anticipated, Mark woke his injured son from the sedated doze when the two FBI agents arrived. Steve was drowsy, and clearly vastly uncomfortable. Scully felt her heart slide into her mouth when she beheld his battered state, and at that point she realized that, safe and secure as he might make her feel, she would never have that peace of mind concerning his own well-being. Strangely, he seemed to read her thoughts, despite his obvious infirmity; the blue eyes flickered, and he gave her an odd little wry half-smile which was both wistful and resigned. Heart twisting, she took his good hand in hers. "Tell us what happened, Steve."

Slowly, with painfully scrupulous attention to detail, omitting nothing, he related the events of the evening, including his own blind spot with regard to acknowledging the existence and the invincibility of the selkie, and his own culpability for the end result of the confrontation. "Moonrise," he concluded, his breath coming in shorter gasps as the mistreated ribs made another bid for attention. "We have till moonrise on Friday."

"To strand Scully on a rock at high tide waiting for him like Andromeda," Mulder finished dryly. "He's rather mixing his myths and legends."

Steve shook his head, or tried to. It objected substantially. Once the stabbing had subsided slightly, he took issue with Mulder's statement. "I won't allow --"

Scully put a calming hand on his arm. "Don't worry, Steve. We've got three days before we have to even consider that option." She glanced at Mark and Jesse, the latter of whom was contemplating Steve's IV with a calculating look. Not the worst idea in the world, she thought, giving him a quick thumb's up. She turned back to the restive patient. "Mulder and I will deal with this for a day or two, Steve. You're looking at a day in here at least anyway."

He started to take issue with her estimate, but had barely enunciated more than a word or two when the lassitude from the sedative began to seep into his body. For the life of him, he couldn't muster the energy to argue, and, if he was sleeping, at least he wouldn't hurt. He managed a slow smile for her, and slipped off into the comforting darkness.

He awoke from troubled dreams a few hours later, with a raging thirst and a sick feeling of dread. The tumbler his questing hand found was empty. Reluctant to attract unnecessary attention, he swallowed a few times and tried to will himself back to sleep. It was no use, however; the dryness in his throat increased relentlessly until he forced himself, feeling slightly foolish, to press the call button.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"

He managed to croak something about hot and thirsty, and the pleasant voice assured him she would take care of it; reassured, he closed his heavy eyelids again and drifted.

Nurse Scofield glanced briefly at the screen showing his vitals as she made the requisite note, then looked back at it again, disturbed. If the monitor was correct, he was running a substantial fever, higher than should ordinarily have been expected. She collected a fresh pitcher of water and refilled the tumbler for him, then doublechecked the monitor on his finger, confirming that it was functioning properly. She shook her head, and instinctively reached for his forehead, thinking wryly that the old time-honored methods never hurt, and gasped with shock as her fingers felt the hot, clammy skin. Quickly, she paged Jesse, then set herself to working on bringing Steve's temperature down.

Jesse performed a quick but thorough examination and ordered bloodwork and antibiotics. "Most likely bacterial, probably related to that stuff that came out of those scratches on your arm," he told the groggy, extremely disoriented patient. "I'm going to start you on a general antibiotic until I get the results back. Don't worry, buddy; you're going to be fine."

Steve wasn't so sure. He was so hot, so thirsty, and his arm throbbed. He mumbled something to that effect, or tried; amazingly, Jesse understood him, and made an effort to calm him. "Trust me. You'll live. Now try to get some sleep."

He made an effort to comply, but slipped instead slowly into a nightmarish dimension, fraught with disturbing visions. The fever dug in its heels, refusing to drop, instead obstinately creeping up higher as he wrestled the demon in his dreams, muttering thickly and incoherently, gasping with the persistent heat despite nurse Scofield's continued attention.

She thought he had awakened at one point, when she heard his voice, pleading for water. When she picked up the tumbler and turned back to him, he was obviously still feverish and delirious, and pushed her hand away. Sighing, she checked his fluid intake from the IV, and went back to wiping his forehead with a newly dampened cloth.

He couldn't escape. Over and over, he relived the surreal conversation, the violence and the pain of his ensuing injuries, the sight of Cheryl lying motionless in the powerful arms, the implacable eyes as the selkie delivered its ultimatum. He tried repeatedly to warn his dream self, to avert the disaster, but to no avail; the scene played out identically each time, leaving him in despair, the burning fingers of the fever clutching at him without cessation.

Mark was sitting with his son, watching and praying as Steve fought the bizarre infection. They had ruled out staph, but the tests had come back negative for any known culture, so they were relying on giving him massive doses of the strongest antibiotics possible, keeping him hydrated, and hoping his constitution would weather the illness. He had had difficulty breathing earlier, and it had been necessary to intubate him; now Mark's eyes maintained a vigilant pattern from his son's chest and its shallow rise and fall, to his face, to the monitor readings, and back again. The fever had finally leveled off, but it had yet to start to drop, and Steve had slipped gradually but inexorably from incomprehensible ravings to the current ominous stupor. Mark reached over again to wipe the fresh sweat from his son's face, neck and chest, trying not to think about what might happen if the fever didn't break.

His unwelcome musings were interrupted by nurse Scofield, advising him that there was an urgent telephone call for him at the nurses' station. When he picked it up, he heard Rachel's voice. A pang of guilt shot through him; she had no idea of what had happened, and he had been so preoccupied that he had totally forgotten about her.

"Mark!" Her normally serene voice, now uncharacteristically worried, held a trace of relief at hearing his. "They said Steve was there -- what's happened?"

They caught each other up quickly. She had called Steve the other night, which Mark realized with a start would have been the same night Cheryl was abducted, but had obviously only been greeted by the answering machine. Steve's subsequent failure to return her call, combined with what little information he had given her about the case, had inexplicably stimulated a finger of irrational worry, which had nagged at her until she had finally called the station. An unusually cooperative Captain Newman had informed her of Steve's injury and resulting hospitalization. She made a noble attempt to keep the justifiable note of reproach out of her tone, but Mark picked up on it anyway.

"Rachel, please forgive me. Under any other circumstances, I would have called you."

She wasn't sure she cared for his phrasing. "What do you mean, Mark? How seriously is he hurt?" And the question she was almost afraid to ask -- should she get down there.

"I'm sorry, Rachel," Mark said penitently. "I'm not trying to make this difficult for you." Reluctantly, he filled her in on the gravity of the situation, then had the unfortunate task of convincing her to stay put. "Rachel, this maniac is targeting women who are closely involved with Steve in one way or another. He's already abducted Cheryl and threatened agent Scully with the same fate; in fact, he's demanded her as ransom. He knows nothing about you, however, and that's the way it's got to remain. If I advised you to come and something happened to you, I'd never forgive myself, nor would Steve. I promise I'll let you know as soon as he's out of danger."

Oops. He hadn't meant to say that, but he was mentally drained, and it slipped out. Naturally, she pounced on it. "Mark, I'm coming down there, maniac or no maniac."

He started to argue, but was distracted by nurse Scofield beckoning to him. His eyes flashed to the monitor screen, to see a small but ever so welcome change in Steve's temperature; the fever was finally inching downwards. With vast relief, he quickly returned his attention to the telephone. "Rachel, honey, truly, you don't need to come. His fever just broke, thank God. And I swear to you I'll get in trouble if he finds out that I let you endanger yourself, and he'll probably have a relapse."

She could hear the strain in his voice, as well as the newer note of it lessening, and took pity on him. "All right, Mark. You win, on three conditions; one, that you keep me posted on his recovery; two, that you never do this to me again."

"And the third?" Mark asked, fairly sure what it might be.

Her voice trembled slightly. "Tell him I love him."

His wasn't particularly steady, either. "Don't worry, honey. I will."

His arid throat was outraged. Bad enough it had been consistently deprived of cool dampness; now there was something plastic, a tube it seemed, adding to its misery. He tried to cough, and cringed at the degree of discomfort throughout his entire body awakened by the movement.

"Son, take it easy. We'll have that out in just a moment."

His father's voice. He started to relax, then tensed again as he remembered the earlier tone of fury.

"Hey, buddy, come on. Don't tighten up on us."

Jesse, too. He wondered vaguely what had happened, why they both sounded so relieved -- why he had this damn tube stuck halfway down to his navel from the feel of it, but the thought process seemed far too complicated, and he settled for doing as he was told during the extubation process. Once it was out, he started to cough again, weakly, and his father was there, supporting his shoulder with one arm, water in the other hand. "Here, son. Slowly."

Even in small sips, the water was blessedly cool as it slid down his abused throat. And wet. Wonderfully, gloriously wet. He had been so hot, so incredibly thirsty. Memory started to wash back as well, confused for the most part, but clear enough for him to see the look in Mark's eyes and realize that he had once again put his beloved father, and his friends, in the wretched position of having to undergo that terrible wait with the unknown. "I'm sorry, Dad," he said, or tried to say; it came out as an almost unintelligible croak, but his father understood.

"For what, son?" he asked, as Steve tried not to gulp the precious water.

He sagged back and tried again, a little more clearly this time. "I'll listen to you next time."

Mark had to smile. "Right. And then I'll check you in here myself for observation." The misery and guilt in his son's eyes were inescapable, however, and he sobered. "Steve -- you did what you felt was right. That mustn't ever change, even if you end up on the rough side of my tongue later. Promise me it won't."

He ventured a cautious smile in return. "I promise, Dad." The pull at his temple reminded him. "What happened, Dad? Why was I intubated? And is there any news from Dana or Mulder?"

Jesse helped Mark push him back gently. "One thing at a time, Steve. You have got to take it easy." The young doctor indicated the bandages on Steve's left arm. "You developed an infection from those gouges on your arm."

Steve stared at him. "Jess, that doesn't make any sense. He slashed me up here on my head the other day, and I didn't get sick."

Jesse wore a pensive look. "I can't be totally sure of that either. But this last time you had three of them, and you weren't cavorting around in salt water to wash some of whatever it was away."

Steve snorted. "I wasn't cavorting."

His best friend raised an eyebrow. "You make a habit of surfing with seals, do you?" Laughing, he leaned back out of range as Steve raised a weak but still threatening fist. "Anyway, you were running an almost impossibly high fever for several hours while we pumped you full of everything we could think of -- well, not quite everything -- until it finally broke a little while ago. You're still feverish, but not dangerously so."

Steve's eyebrows veered downward. "Dangerously?" he echoed ominously.

Mark intervened. "Son -- you were comatose towards the end of it." He didn't say the rest.

He didn't need to. Steve shut his eyes, newly furious with himself for his own carelessness. "I'm sorry, Dad, Jess. Truly."

His father's hand gently squeezed his shoulder. "I know, son. I understand."

He was tired, so tired, but he still had to know. Wearily, he pushed his eyes open again. "Any news?"

Mark shook his head. "They're reviewing the most recent crime scenes, looking to see if there's any clue as to where Murphy's hiding out."

Steve shuddered. "I kept getting this bizarre image of green, kelp-covered walls underwater, and he had her in some sort of weird bubble so she can breathe."

Jesse stared at him, eyes round. "Wow. I'd better check your IV."

"Don't be ridiculous, Jess. I was delirious, remember? I'm surprised it was that tame." He was silent for a moment, then asked the question he really didn't want to have answered. "What day is it, Dad?"

Mark's voice was gentle. "Thursday, son. It's not quite dinnertime." He glanced at the IV. "You need to rest."

Steve took as deep a breath as his misused ribs would allow. "Dad -- if I promise to rest now --"

His father's expression was resigned. "Just so I don't have to waste time waiting around for you in the garage -- if you get some rest, and if you're not still running a fever, I'll discharge you conditionally tomorrow morning."

"Conditionally?"

Mark nodded. "Conditionally -- that you return here promptly once this is over and park yourself for whatever medical attention is necessary, until I see fit to discharge you properly."

This was a no-brainer. "I promise, Dad. Really." He smiled at his father affectionately, then closed his eyes resolutely, determined to be able to walk out of there the next day.


	11. Council of War, Cue Strange Music

Mark glanced up at the knock to see Scully and Mulder standing in the doorway, and rose hurriedly from behind his desk. "Come in and sit down, you two," he invited. "Any luck?"

Mulder looked disgusted. "Whatever slimy wet tracks Murphy may have left have dried up."

Mark blinked, startled by the image. "I take it that means we're back to square one?"

"I'm afraid so, Mark," Scully replied. "Unless something changes in the next twelve hours or so, we're going to have to do this the hard way." She changed the subject, not quite deliberately. "How's Steve?"

Mark rubbed his neck tiredly. "I'm about to find out. He was sleeping the last time I checked in on him; the fever had come down considerably, but he wasn't out of the woods entirely yet."

"Woods, nothing," his son's voice chipped in. Steve stood in the doorway, trying not to lean against the doorjamb too obviously. "You promised I could leave, Dad."

Mark was already on his feet at Steve's initial comment. "I said conditionally," he reminded his son, giving him a sharp look.

Steve had an odd little grin, almost a smirk, on his face, as he handed his father his chart. "Jesse signed off on me, Dad. May I go now?"

His father eyed the theoretically inoffensive document critically. "Hmmpfh. And just what did you threaten to do to him if he didn't go along with this foolishness?"

The humor left Steve's face abruptly. "Dad. I'm all right. More or less. And you promised."

Mark's eyebrows hovered somewhere between disapproval and outright annoyance. "More or less?"

"Dad, please." Steve started to throw both hands up in exasperation, then thought better of it as he remembered the sling on his left arm. "I'm losing time." He glanced towards Mulder and Scully, both of whom had been attempting to pretend they were nowhere near the conversation. "I take it there's no news."

Mulder shook his head, his eyes unexpectedly sympathetic. "Murphy's found himself somewhere new to hole up and is lying low; he's left no trail anywhere of any activity whatsoever. It looks like you were the last person to see either one of them."

Steve pushed himself casually away from the wall and wandered over to a chair, hoping his father wouldn't pick up on his overly cautious gait. "Well, he obviously can't be keeping her under the rock where I first saw him."

"Or five fathoms deep?" quoted Mulder, filing Steve's involuntary shiver away for future reference.

Scully saw it too. "Steve?" she queried, with a look of concern.

He shook his head. "I'm all right. It just reminded me of something I dreamed." He obviously didn't want to pursue the subject.

"I hate to complicate this discussion," Mark observed, "but don't you need to give some thought as to how you're going to handle Murphy when you find him?"

Steve grunted. "I was hoping something would occur to me by now." He glanced over at Mulder, who was leaning back in his chair, long legs outstretched, sleepy eyes half-closed, deep in thought. "I don't suppose your extensive background study included anything along those lines?"

Mulder's eyebrows twitched slightly, although otherwise he didn't move. "No. Apparently, all the selkies who authorized biographies had the grace or good sense to disappear back into the sea minus their girlfriends."

Scully gave her partner a telling look. "That's helpful."

Steve agreed. "Just my luck; we have to run up against a desperado."

His father sat up suddenly. "Steve, what did you say he told you?"

"When, Dad? After I shot him full of non-existent bullet holes or before?" Steve's face was grim, not quite showing yet either the turmoil or the slowly growing cold resolution within.

Mark hated to make him go through it again, but they were obviously missing something. "After."

Steve took as deep a breath as his still vulnerable ribs would tolerate. "He told me bullets were ineffective." His eyes were chilly. "As if I hadn't already figured that out by then," he added sarcastically.

Mark scratched his mustache pensively. "Wasn't there something else?"

Steve considered, forcing himself to face the repugnant memory. "He said -- he said he could be injured -- no, that's not quite right. His exact wording was that he wasn't immune to injury." He noticed incuriously that his hands were starting to shake; resolutely, he got a grip on himself and continued. "And he said that I had already been shown how he could be vulnerable."

Scully looked doubtful. "Do you have any idea what he was talking about?"

Funny, Steve thought with mild detachment, how they had all tacitly agreed to refer to the selkie as "he" rather than "it," as if the specific pronoun somehow made the whole business less unbelievable. "I wasn't thinking, or even seeing, too clearly by that point, Dana. I don't know what he meant."

"What who meant?" Amanda asked, walking in with some pathology reports, which she deposited neatly on Mark's desk as he then brought her up to date on the discussion. "I see," she said thoughtfully. "How do you stop a three hundred plus pound monster who's immune to bullets and pulverizes his victims' windpipes with his bare --" Her voice trailed off as they all stared at her.

"That's it!" Mark exclaimed. "That has to be it. He drowns them and crushes their throats --"

"And, obviously, he's not likely to drown," Steve finished. He looked even more perturbed. "Dad, I hate to sound pessimistic, but I think I should point out that he outweighs all of us, quite possibly put together, has a good foot or so even on Mulder, and he just beat the living daylights out of me, which, despite my present condition, usually isn't that easy for someone to do singlehandedly. Just how do you propose we manage to immobilize him long enough to safely throttle him to death without getting pounded to a pulp in the meantime?"

Mark sighed. "I don't know, son. I'm working on it." He glanced around at the others. "And any contributions to the process would be greatly appreciated."

Steve shook his head, muttering to himself about needing to find a very large stick, preferably one four or five feet long. His soliloquy mumbled to an abrupt halt as he felt his father's inimical gaze fixed upon him, and he looked up to confirm that he was indeed the sudden object of his father's full attention. "What?"

Mark was thinking that his son looked tired, despite his valiant but unsuccessful attempt to hide it. "Jesse's perfidy notwithstanding, you and I have some minor business before I approve your discharge." He grinned at Amanda and the two FBI agents. "If you'll excuse us?" he requested, summarily and inexorably ushering his reluctant victim out of his office, Steve's futile protests echoing back down the hall.

Frowning, Mark signed his name to Steve's discharge papers. "I want you to know, son -- just because I have agreed to this, doesn't mean I'm happy about it." He scowled at his son, who hurriedly wiped the abortive smirk from his face and tried to look appropriately contrite. "And I'm serious about you coming back. If you try to report for work without checking in here with me first, I'll call Jim Newman and rat on you myself."

Steve grinned at his father, relieved to finally be getting out of the hospital. He had felt so useless, so ineffective; now at least he could try to do something about Murphy and rescue Cheryl.

Mark saw his son's eyes shadow again. "What is it, Steve?" he asked, imagining he already knew the answer.

"Dad -- I wish I knew how to find him. What to do to him when I do find him." He sighed. "I mean, how effective is my old Louisville Slugger really likely to be?"

Mark's eyes were sympathetic. "At the risk of reminding you of things you'd probably rather forget, son, you of all of us have had the most contact with him, especially in --" It felt ridiculous to say it.

Steve wore a pained smile. "In all of his -- shapes, Dad?" He shook his head. "You're right. Hell, I saw him -- and felt him. And it still defies belief."

"So was there anything?" his father asked. "Anything you think might be useful?"

Steve gave his father a strained look. "You've been hanging around me too long, Dad." He scrubbed his good hand over his chin as he pondered. "The main thing I remember, on every single occasion, he was obsessed with this clearly ridiculous idea of our being related."

Mark's mind flashed involuntarily on that one incredible image of man and seal, so patently in tune with each other and the power of the ocean. Something of his feeling must have shown in his face, and his son glanced at him sharply. "What is it, Dad?"

He tried to push the disturbing memory away. "Maybe he simply reacted to your affinity to the sea, Steve," he said carefully.

Steve wasn't buying it. "Spit it out, Dad. There's more to it than what you're telling me."

Mark blew out an exasperated breath. "Have I ever told you that you can be as persistently annoying as your old man?"

His son laughed. "Old, my eye. Yes, Dad. Often. Coming from you, I consider it a compliment." He sobered abruptly. "C'mon, Dad. Give."

Delicately, Mark described what he had seen, while Steve listened, frowning. "You know, son, I wish I'd had the video camera, but everything happened so fast, and then you were hurt -- well, it was over in seconds, or so it seemed." He had an odd expression on his face. "You see trainers working with animals, doing some amazing things. But this -- son, I know this is going to sound very strange in light of what happened, but it was beautiful. Absolutely extraordinary."

Steve looked uncomfortable. "I'm not sure I remember too much of it, Dad." But his eyes focused on some distant point beyond the wall of the examining room as his voice trailed off.

"I'm sorry, son." His father's voice was understanding. "I didn't mean to raise anything which should have been better left alone."

Steve shook his head. "No, Dad. It's all right. I remember it now -- it's just that I feel guilty --"

"Because you got hurt?" His father's eyebrows started to creep back downwards. "Son, I thought we discussed that to death already."

"No, Dad," Steve repeated. He had a wondering look in his eyes. "What you saw was probably one of the single most perfect moments in my life -- well, until he tossed me head first into that wave, that is." His hands moved restlessly. "You know I've always loved the water, Dad. But right then -- I owned it. It was mine for the surfing, all of it, the salt breeze, the --" He stopped, startled, as music faintly trickled into the room.

Mark stared at him. "What's the matter?"

He took a breath, willing himself calm. "You don't hear it, do you."

"The pennywhistle?" his father guessed.

Steve nodded. "That's really starting to get on my nerves."

His father looked distracted. "There's got to be some connection, other than the obvious. What did Murphy call it when he asked you about it that afternoon?"

"The seal song," Steve said reluctantly. "Not that that helps."

"Hmmmn." Mark fingered his mustache absently. "Do you remember anything else?"

He didn't want to bring it up, but he knew there was no point in avoiding the discussion. "Yeah," Steve said unwillingly. "He's inconceivably lonely."

"What?" his father exclaimed. "I thought he made an endless habit of romancing young women." He gave his son a narrow look. "You didn't mention this before."

"I know, Dad," Steve said tiredly. "It just seemed too far-fetched. And the conversation was so damn surreal, and I wasn't thinking very clearly at the time; and, to tell you the truth, for a while, I wasn't sure I hadn't just dreamed it." He fidgeted with the sling on his arm, avoiding his father's eyes. "He's lonely, Dad. Terribly, unbearably lonely. If you go along with his story, he's at least five hundred years old. And he -- he falls in love, and he settles down, for a while at least, and then --"

The penny dropped. "And then the woman dies, or goes back to her village, or her family forces him back to the sea; but ultimately he's bereft again."

Steve nodded. "And the crazy thing is, for a while there, I actually felt sorry for him." He shuddered. "And now he's got Cheryl. I've got to go, Dad."

His father lifted resigned hands. "All right, Steve. But Jesse and I are coming with the three of you tonight, and I don't want any arguments."

He inhaled anyway, then exhaled reluctantly as he recognized the iron look in his father's eyes. "All right, Dad. Only for backup, though, okay? I don't want anyone else getting hurt."

Steve spent the next few hours, along with Mulder and Scully, reviewing the crime reports from Murphy's victims, as well as re-examining the most recent murder scene along with Cheryl's house. They finally admitted defeat as the afternoon shadows lengthened, Mulder's running commentary grew more caustic, and Steve's already uncertain temper began to fray.

After narrowly averting yet another confrontation between the two men, Scully got to her feet and threw them a look of utter disgust. "I've had enough of you two sniping at each other. If you can't come up with anything more constructive to do, we need to devote some attention to Plan B."

"Plan B?" Steve echoed, from his position leaning against the living room wall. He wasn't sure that he necessarily wanted to hear the answer.

"She means where we stake her out on the rock like the sacrificial goat," contributed Mulder. Scully sighed and left the room, fed up with them both.

Steve glared at him. "I don't think that's particularly funny, Mulder."

The other man shrugged. "I might have known. No sense of humor, either."

His neck was getting hot. "Either?" When his question went unanswered, he straightened up and strolled over to where Mulder sprawled on the couch. "Care to elaborate?" he invited coldly.

The agent flicked him a disinterested glance. "Not especially, but I suppose you're going to insist."

"That's right, Mulder. I insist."

Mulder's eyes weren't particularly sleepy now. "No sense of humor, Stevie. You hear musical instruments no one else can hear. And you don't seem to be able to avoid losing -- things."

The eyebrows slammed down with a vengeance. "Why don't you say what you mean." He paused, then added, as offensively as he could manage, "Fox."

Although Mulder technically was the taller of the two, his typical slouch when he stood up put them more or less nose to nose. "I'm only going to say this once, Sloan. You're not going to lose my partner like you did your own," he snarled, then stepped back involuntarily at the anger blazing in Steve's eyes.

"I. Didn't. Lose. Her." The rage, so insupportably suppressed for the last several days, was threatening to burst out uncontrollably, and it was all he could do to keep from wiping the sneer off the other man's face with his fist, even if he had to rely on his right hand. It came up anyway, clenched and hovering, until Steve managed to put a rein on his temper. "And, for your information, I have no intention of going along with your sick idea of a Plan B."

Mulder tried to look as if he were merely casually interested instead of fairly relieved. Scully had already threatened not to speak to him for weeks if he got into an actual bout of fisticuffs with the LAPD detective. "Do you have an alternative suggestion?" he inquired neutrally.

Steve exhaled explosively. "Yes. No. Well, sort of."

Scully chose that moment to return, somehow divining they had been at each other's throats again. "What, Steve?"

Prowling distractedly, he picked up one of the pictures from Cheryl's mantelpiece, which he hadn't noticed before. It had been taken at a retirement party they had attended a few months earlier; someone had caught them standing together, laughing at a story someone else had just told. He hadn't realized Cheryl had managed to obtain a copy. Unthinkingly, he traced his thumb along the edge of her smiling face. "I have to try to talk to him. See if I can get him to understand."

"Understand what?" she asked, puzzled.

He gave her a very strange look, his eyes almost the color of the ocean, and as mysterious. "That I can't do this his way." He took her hands gently. "I'm going to go down there first. Alone. Unless I call for backup, don't come down." She started to protest, but he shook his head. "Please, Dana. Trust me." Then he kissed her lips lightly, and turned and walked out of the room, leaving her to exchange a mystified look with her partner and follow at a discreet distance.


	12. Confrontation

The rocky beach was empty, no sign of life whatsoever except the water slapping up against the rough boulders. Well, what did he expect, Steve thought resentfully, picking his way down to the shore; the selkie obviously wasn't to be waiting for him with open arms and a freely surrendered Cheryl Banks. It was strange, though; ordinarily, this particular beach was a favorite hangout for the harbor seals, and the absence of any glistening furry bodies frisking in the water or basking in the sun was disturbing. He reached the shore level and leaned against one of the larger rocks, squinting out towards the horizon.

Nothing. He was obviously going to have to do something, although he wasn't sure what. Irritably, he called out, feeling slightly foolish.

"Murphy? If you're here, show yourself. We need to talk."

His only answer was the quiet susurrus of the wind as it bounced off the rocks. He glanced around, wishing he didn't feel quite so exposed, but there was still no sign of anyone or anything else. An unsettling thought began to burrow up from the recesses of his mind; he resisted it at first, unwilling to sink further into accepting the existence of something which had no legitimate place in his reality, but it persisted, and, finally, after another sweeping glance confirming his lack of company, he submitted, and reluctantly let himself listen for the seal song.

For a long, drawn-out minute, nothing happened. Then, slowly, only a faint trickling of notes initially, becoming louder as he strained to hear it, the music grew clearer, the pennywhistle once again sending its wistful melody across the wind. Momentarily forgetting where he was, or why he had called it, he stood awe-struck, lost in the sound.

"You are early, cousin. And regrettably unaccompanied."

Blinking, he surfaced from his reverie to see the selkie standing several feet away. At least he had chosen to appear as Murphy; Steve still wasn't sure of his ability to carry on any kind of rational conversation with the alternatives. He swallowed, trying to moisten a mouth suddenly gone dry. "I wanted to talk to you before -- before it was time." He hoped his voice sounded sufficiently calm.

Murphy stared at him. "What matters could there possibly be to discuss, cousin? I gave you an ultimatum. That I granted you one at all is highly unorthodox. Do not presume to trifle with me."

Steve held up his good hand in an attempt at reassurance. "I don't. I mean, I'm not." He was about to continue when the significance of what had happened finally hit him fully. He wasn't sure he wanted to acknowledge the implication. "Murphy -- the music --"

The other man sighed and sat down on one of the rocks, stretching out his legs, giving nothing so much as the sudden, disconcerting image of a seal sunning itself. "What about the seal song?"

"Do you have to bring it with you every time you show up?" Steve parried, still hoping not to have to believe anything else.

Murphy started to smile cynically, then grew sober as he took note of the reluctant recognition and accompanying distress in Steve's eyes. "Stee-faun, I did not do so," he replied seriously, almost kindly. "You called me with it."

He was afraid Murphy was going to say that, and take away his last chance of denial. He yanked his eyes from the other's sympathetic gaze and stared out to sea in silence. Finally, he turned back to the waiting selkie. "So I'm stuck with this for the rest of my life."

Murphy considered the matter. "Possibly. But --" The dark eyes were now touched with an inexplicable sadness. "So many of the old ways, so much of the old knowledge, have been eradicated because modern man simply refuses to believe, does not see the value of living in harmony with them. You are blood-kin, Stee-faun, but you are also a splendid product of your time and generation. If you truly no longer wish to swim with our little brethren, you will succeed in forcing the seal song to leave you. Forever."

Steve stared at him, shocked, his treacherous mind recreating those incredible golden moments of exhilaration. "I take it there's no choice in between," he said hoarsely, not sure he cared for the way the conversation was going.

Murphy shrugged. "Truth, I cannot be sure. That road could very well lead to madness." His eyes grew implacable and, paradoxically, more sympathetic. "The question would be more accurately whether, past tonight, you would wish to try."

Steve shivered, brought back with a jolt to the business at hand. "I don't know."

"Then," Murphy remarked, rising from his rock and stretching, "I suggest, Fintan, you concentrate on the here and now. Where is she?"

Steve shifted his stance, surreptitiously bracing himself for whatever might follow. "She's up there, waiting for my signal. Which I'm not going to give until I see Cheryl, safe and unharmed."

Murphy shrugged again, and moved his hand strangely; Cheryl appeared, perched on one of the larger rocks on shore. She looked unhurt, but Steve started to move towards her anyway, and stopped in his tracks as an iron arm barred his way.

"She has not been harmed, and she breathes normally." He laughed as he saw Steve's eyes widen. "You are more familiar with the legends of the sea than you allow yourself to admit, cousin. I rather enjoyed the image of seaweed-strewn ruins where I allegedly keep my unwilling bride, but I am sorry to disappoint you." He waved at the rocks. "We have been here, even as you searched. There are many caves, and the necessary -- blurring -- was not difficult."

He was furious for allowing himself to be distracted earlier. "That's all very well, Murphy. But I'm not calling Dana down until I'm sure Cheryl's all right."

Annoyed, Murphy grabbed him by his left arm. Steve knew it was deliberate when he felt sharp points digging into the existing wounds, and steeled himself against the pain; the other arm still held him at bay. He promised himself a very large piece of the man later, and forced himself to stay calm. "I'm serious, Murphy. You can maul me all you want, but I'm calling the shots right now. I'm not giving you one woman before I'm certain the other one's unhurt."

The impenetrable eyes held his cold ones another moment, then the arms dropped. "Very well. See to her if you wish."

He all but ran over to her. "Cheryl! Are you all right?" Quickly, he ran frantic hands over her arms and legs, more to reassure himself that she was still in one piece than anything else, and stopped as he realized that, although she was breathing normally, she hadn't said a word, and hadn't acknowledged his presence at all. He wheeled about, fury blazing in his eyes. "What have you done to her?" he snarled.

Murphy gave him a scornful look. "I told you she was unharmed. She is only entranced, and will remain so until our -- transaction -- is complete." He glanced at the waiting rocks. "I grow impatient, Fintan. Let us be done with this."

Steve had bluffed as long as he dared; he could see the outline of the selkie hovering faintly around the man's body. Still, he reached for Cheryl, determined to either lead or carry her out of harm's way, and was stopped once again, this time by the menace in the selkie's voice.

"Leave her, cousin. Or I will not honor my promise."

The shape was starting to take on that weird shimmer he had thought he had only imagined. His options, already becoming very limited, shrank even farther as a new voice called, clearly and coldly.

"He's not going to give you what you want until I come down, Steve." Scully stood at the lookout point above, Mulder at her side. Even from the beach below, Steve could see the rage in the other man's face and body. He sagged against another rock, trying not to give in to his frustration, as she made her way downwards, Mulder following.

Murphy's form resolidified. "Goddess. You honor me."

Mulder stepped in front of his partner, blocking the other man's way. "Not so fast, buddy."

The inhuman eyes stared at him. "You have no say in this matter. Stand aside."

"That's where you're mistaken, pal," Mulder gritted, refusing to move.

Murphy's lips thinned. "A bargain has been struck."

"Not by me, it hasn't."

Steve edged into position. "I don't recall your asking my consent either -- cousin."

Bad move. The shimmering started again. Mulder saw it also, and moved fast, but the selkie was faster. Mulder went flying, landing hard, as a powerful arm struck. Then that same arm reached for Scully, only to be stopped by Steve's hand.

"No. She hasn't agreed yet."

There was nothing left of the human now except the eyes, never particularly mortal in the first place. "Feeble subterfuges, Fintan," it growled, and he found himself sprawling, unhappy ribs complaining bitterly.

Amazingly, Mulder was at the creature again, ambushing it from behind, grabbing for its throat and bellowing something unintelligible. Steve saw the claws unsheathe and shouted a warning, but Mulder refused to relinquish his grip, even as the cruel hands reached rearward and raked across his back repeatedly, eliciting a howl of pain from the agent.

Steve winced, feeling an empathic burning in his arm. "That's enough, Murphy!" He pushed himself upright somehow and leapt at the selkie again, if for no other reason than to distract those vicious claws. Once more, he found himself face to face with the ground, fresh pain searing down his shoulder, eyes struggling to focus from the force of the blow.

Scully's yell brought him stumbling to his feet again, freezing momentarily in horror. The selkie stood in the slowly rising tide, negligently forcing a bloody and barely conscious Mulder underneath the water, ignoring the wounded man's struggling efforts to surface. And Scully was running straight at them; Steve managed to grab her as she went by and forced her back away from the scuffle. "Don't you dare, Dana! If he grabs you, he's got what he wanted, and he'll kill Mulder anyway!"

She tried to argue, but he pushed her to a sitting position on the ground. "No," he said inexorably, and turned back to fling himself on the monster. Amazingly, it relaxed its grip on Mulder, and switched its attention to him instead as he instinctively went for its throat.

"I have now had my fill of your interference, cousin," it said ominously. "Blood or no blood, I will kill you and the other, and take both women instead."

At last. Steve reached deep, deep inside, to that carefully cherished, sharp-honed, white-hot rage and set it loose, revelling in its power. "I don't think so, cousin. Meet Fintan."

To Scully, pulling her partner to relative safety out of the water, the vision was bewildering. At times, the two were distinctly man and monster; then the latter's outlines would blur, and she wasn't sure what she was seeing. Then it looked like Steve was surrounded by something she couldn't define either; he seemed to be taking a great deal of punishment, but he held fast, muscles straining under the thin cotton shirt, now thoroughly soaked, much like the rest of him, as the two fought in and out of the rising surf.

Now, however, it looked like he was starting to weaken, although there was too much blood for her to be sure. Frantic, she glanced around, and heard Mulder gasp something. She bent down to catch the garbled words.

"Needs -- a weapon -- crush -- throat --"

Scully looked around again. No driftwood anywhere; but there were rocks. Lots of rocks. Big ones. She picked up a promising contender and sidled closer to the struggling bodies, hoping not to distract the human combatant too drastically.

"Steve! Here, take this!"

Wild-eyed, he turned his head, and, recognizing her intent, reached out for the proposed weapon. The movement cost him dearly; the selkie drove the wicked nails deep into his unprotected side, and his head swam as he clung desperately to consciousness. Then he had the rock in his hand, its weight solid and reassuring, and, grunting with the effort, he brought his arm around with all the strength he could summon, smashing the deadly weapon against his adversary's neck.

Amazingly, the steel grip relaxed slightly, enough for Steve to force the selkie onto its back, desperately scrambling to straddle it to keep it down, slamming the rock, now with the force of both arms, repeatedly into its unprotected throat. He heard the bones snap, and jerked back as the enormity of his action overwhelmed him.

The selkie realized it too. The mouth worked, but no sound emerged, and the ancient eyes reflected the sudden recognition of mortality. The whistle, which had been shrieking wildly during the fight, suddenly dropped into a slow, plaintive air.

So I saw truly indeed, Fintan.

Unsure if his own throat was capable of producing sound, he nodded, forcing the rage back, still hunching over the selkie's body, unable to tear his eyes away from that no longer immortal gaze.

You have provided an unexpected solution to my dilemma. The mental voice was pensive. Perhaps it was time for me to finally reunite with past loves instead of seeking new ones.

He didn't understand. Cheryl and Dana were out of danger, the selkie was finished, and all he could feel was a deep, inexplicable melancholy. He ran his tongue over dry lips and made to speak.

No, cousin. You have acted as honor required. I bear you no grudge. It moved, gasping for the air it could no longer assimilate. A gift of advice, cousin. Do not let my fate become yours.

Startled, he jerked into speech, hoarse though it was. "What do you mean?"

The eyes were even sadder. Listen to your heart, Stee-faun. It already knows the decision to be made. Listen to it, and act accordingly, and live your life with the love you seek. It is already within your reach.

The world had shrunk down to this bizarre conversation. "Which one?" he breathed, mesmerized.

Listen to your heart, kinsman. The eyes were starting to lose their sheen. I ask of you one last thing.

Steve wished he understood why the passing of this -- monstrosity -- was causing him so much distress, and why he felt he owed it something. "What's that?"

Return my body back to our ocean once we are done so I may sleep where I belong. The involuntary movements were becoming virtually non-existent, and he nodded, once more unable to speak. My thanks, cousin. Your lady is well, and safe. May the seal song remain with you if you so desire. Fare well.

The luminescent eyes glazed, and Steve found himself kneeling over the motionless body of the seal with which he had shared that glorious moment centuries earlier; unable to stop himself, he leaned forward onto its glossy fur and wept, the seal song mourning along with him.


	13. Endgame, with Seal Song

Mark glanced up as his son slowly made his deliberate way onto the deck, watching him with concern. Steve was obviously still experiencing a considerable amount of discomfort as a result of the final confrontation with the selkie, and probably should not have been discharged from the hospital just yet. Their previous discussion on that subject, however, had ultimately culminated in his son's flat insistence on going home coupled with the threat, delivered in as dispassionate and serious a tone as Steve was capable of, to leave as soon as anyone took their eyes off of him for even a second. The bleakness in Steve's voice, along with his worn face and haunted eyes, had convinced his father that perhaps access to his beloved ocean might encourage the healing process. Strangely, for the first two days, Steve had holed up in his half of the house, refusing to talk to anyone or even emerge upstairs. Mark had fielded calls from Rachel, Cheryl and Scully, as well as Amanda and Jesse, until he had finally lost patience and gone downstairs to confront his son. Steve had listened politely, thanked his father for his concern, and limped into his bedroom, closing the door firmly. Mark had returned to his own quarters, his irritation tempered by the intuitive feeling that he would be seeing Steve upstairs soon.

And now Steve stood leaning against the railing, staring at the Pacific for the first time since that terrible evening several days earlier. His own memory of the events immediately following the selkie's demise was still shaky; he remembered seeing Cheryl's worried face as he lifted his own, streaked with tears, only to pass out as shock and blood loss finally overcame him. Then his father and Jesse, bending over him, and his halting insistence that Mulder was in more urgent need of their attention. His father's reassurances that Mulder was being tended, and the sensation of calm, capable hands treating his own injuries, including the vicious wound in his side. And, strongest of all, barely able to stand, easing the seal's body, with his father's help, into the rising tide, watching it drift out to sea, before finally succumbing to the hovering greyness around the edges of his world.

He had spent some time, both while confined to a hospital bed and after coming home, mulling over the selkie's final words. Still bewildered by the depth of his response to its demise, he had finally decided to table any attempt at resolution until he could approach the subject with any degree of objectivity. Murphy's ultimate advice, however, was a little more difficult to tuck away neatly; faced with a considerable amount of time on his hands along with limited enthusiasm for any of his customary amusements, he brooded. He had spent a long telephone call trying to convince Rachel that he had survived his latest adventure relatively in one piece, and that she shouldn't attempt to deprive her patients of her presence so soon; he planned to drive up once Jesse cleared him to make the trip. Rachel had protested initially, but then acceded to his request, he suspected, with some relief at not having to take time off already from her brand new job.

And he wasn't sure that her career, or his own, to be fair, would not present the ultimate testing ground for their relationship. The only decision he had been able to reach concerning Rachel, in the wake of the selkie's words, was that he would have to raise the issue with her on his next visit, and presumably he would receive some sort of guidance from the character of her response.

For he was still not sure of the ultimate wisdom of the selkie's advice. His unpredictable heart had led him to this increasingly untenable position in the first place by essentially throwing itself at Cheryl's feet, and arguing that he couldn't possibly dismiss the idea out of hand without at least pursuing it to the same extent as he had with Rachel in order to make any kind of sensible decision. He wasn't sure that he cared for this logic, but he couldn't deny the pull on his emotions, or the effect her smile had on him.

This irresoluteness was another reason why, after confirming Mulder would survive, he had agitated to be released, and had immediately gone to ground, fairly sure that he would have at least a couple of days' peace before anyone bothered him, and secure in the expectation that his father would eventually advise him to snap out of it. Now, gazing out over the Pacific, he started automatically searching for brown furry heads in the surf, and caught himself with a start.

Mark was watching him more clearly than he realized. "What is it, son?" he asked sharply.

Steve gave him a surprised look. "Dad, I'm all right. You don't have to watch me like I'm going to break."

His father looked unconvinced. "In another few days, maybe not. For now -- yes, I do."

He slid into a chair and smiled at his father affectionately. "I know, Dad. Just checking."

Mark smiled back, wishing it were that simple. "Son -- you still haven't told me what happened."

"What do you mean?" Steve asked warily.

His father gave him a critical look. "Let's see; here's what I know. The three of you managed to sneak off without letting anyone know you were heading down there early. Jesse and I got a phone call from Dana, I assume just before she joined you, telling us where you were. When we arrived, Dana was trying to keep Mulder from bleeding to death, and Cheryl, looking rather shell-shocked, was pulling you out of the water. Then, once you came round, you insisted on pushing the body of a very large and very dead seal out to sea, mumbling something about a promise, after which you passed out." He folded his arms and looked at Steve quizzically. "Accurate so far?"

Steve finally found his voice. "Yeah. I guess." He glanced away at the ocean. "I'm not sure I remember too accurately myself."

But his father had that determined angle to his eyebrows, so he might as well muddle through it. Mark sat calmly through the telling until Steve described the selkie's final speech.

"Sounds like pretty fair advice to me," he commented.

Steve sighed. "Maybe so, but I'm obviously not listening in the right language yet -- I still don't know who it should be."

The doorbell rang; Mark rose and rested his hand briefly on Steve's shoulder. "You'll find out -- just keep your ears open." He smiled at his son's bemused expression. "After all, look what you called up the last time."

He was back within minutes, followed by Scully and Mulder, who was leaning on crutches, his right leg in a cast, but looking much healthier than the last time Steve had seen him. Mark helped the agent ease into a chair and fussed about making sure everyone was comfortable, then subsided into his own. There was a short, strained silence; then Steve and Mulder both began speaking at once. Embarrassed, they laughed, stopped, and started again simultaneously; finally, they got themselves coordinated.

"Sloan -- thanks for saving my life," Mulder said with his customary lack of inflection.

Steve shifted uncomfortably. "No more than what you did," he pointed out.

They eyed each other momentarily, then Scully said dryly, "I hate to break up this Kodak moment, but --"

"But we have something interesting to share with you," Mulder contributed. "First, we've received word that Mrs. Tallon has been found, safe and sound, in Vancouver. Why there, I have no idea, but she's returning to L.A. to give a statement. Our local office is still investigating the wives and/or significant others for Murphy's other victims. And we finally got the results on our background check request on Keefe Murphy."

Steve wasn't sure he wanted to hear it, but Mark was definitely interested. "What did you find?"

Scully lifted an eyebrow. "More a case of what we didn't find, initially."

"No green card," Mulder stated. "No passport. No driver's license. No birth certificate. It's almost as if he no longer exists." He glanced around with a faint grin.

"Oh, no," Steve groaned. "Why do I have this bad feeling?"

Mulder ignored the plaintive question. "We did find the most recent record available, so to speak."

Scully scowled at him fondly. "Don't you think you're milking the suspense a little more than necessary, Mulder?"

Now the agent looked positively blissful. "Nah." He grinned at them. "We found one Keefe Fergus Murphy, resident of Connemara, County Galway, Ireland -- born 1557, apparently died 1592 --"

"Apparently?" Steve asked, startled.

Mulder looked like a cat which had just finished a very large bowl of cream. "He was lost at sea and presumed drowned."

Steve was still assimilating this bewildering news when the doorbell rang again. He shook his head at his father, who was starting to get to his feet. "I'll answer it, Dad; I need the exercise."

Cheryl had glanced out over the street momentarily, then turned back as she heard him open the door. Her smile lit her magnificent eyes with her delight at seeing him. Somewhere deep within, he felt, even heard, a sweet-voiced whistle trill softly as he gazed into her joyous face; as he took her in his arms, he heard the seal song once more.


End file.
